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55 


‘It is perfectly lovely, but such a name 




•THE'AN&E'L' 
O' DEADMAN 



It 

AUTHOR OP THE BLACK PROPHET. 
THE MOAN OPTHETIBER ^c- 


CINCINNATI. 

Iheifaridard Publlrhin^ Company. 


Copyright, 1917 


The Standard Publishing Company 




MAY 21 1917 


©CU467054 

/ n? "? 1 • ' : 


DEDICATION 


T AM dedicating this book to my wife, Ethel Viola. I do so 
with a feeling that she should be given a prominent place in 
whatever literary success may come to me. Unselfish as sunlight, 
she has aided in every way possible to make my dreams come 
true. To her I have read the crude drafts of books in the 
making and have always been profited by her judgment. Often, 
when discouragement stood like a black demon at the door, she 
has cheered me to try again, assuring me that success would come. 
When my temples have throbbed from overwork, her hands, al- 
ways mortgaged to many tasks, have smoothed out the heated 
nerves and \brought rest. Then there is her magical musical gift, 
her swift witchery of fingers, which wakes something in the instru- 
ment which no other touch has ever stirred : how that has kept the 
bright spirit of art alive in the home. With these she has added 
herself. It has been something worth while to have eyes like hers 
to look into, which for expression and beauty surpass even the 
gazelle’s. It has been an inspiration to contemplate her buoyant 
pleasure when some new achievement has been gained, while her 
love of nature and childhood, her poetry of spirit and constancy, 
have sown my way with things of cheer. 


THE AUTHOR. 





























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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I An Interruption 7 

II Selecting a Cabin 20 

III The Coming of Moods 41 

IV The Color 52 

V The Old Powder Cabin 66 

VI What Happened in the Night.. 79 

VII The Way of the Camp 120 

VIII The Touch of Love 130 

IX Laughing Brookie 138 

X The Song of the Steel 143 

XI The Lake of Seven Moons 167 

XII The Growth of a Dream 174 

XIII What the Pines Heard 180 

XIV Where the Will-o’-the-wisp 

Leads 194 

XV The Seat of the Scornful 215 

XVI Laughing Brookie’s Complaint. 224 
XVII The Gathering of the Mist. . t . 233 

XVIII The Eye at the Chink 242 

XIX The Strength of the Weak. . . . 247 
XX The Humbling of Jack Har- 
rington 260 


3 


4 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


XXI The Awakening 265 

XXII The House of Pain 278 

XXIII A Stair that Was Crystal. . . . 283 

XXIV Miles that Were Long 288 

XXV The End of the Trail 293 

XXVI A Lonely Cabin 304 

XXVII The Motto at the Miners' 

Rest 311 

XXVIII Following the Star 320 

XXIX The Call 330 

XXX The Plans of Evil. 338 

XXXI The Surprise 341 

XXXII Drawing the Lines 349 

XXXIII Where the Star Led. 353 

XXXIV An Hour that Was Love's .... 364 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

“It is perfectly lovely, but such a name”. . .Frontispiece 
“Gene passed her hand gently over the girl’s face”. 113 
“Please row me back to the landing” 210 


5 





















































































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I 


AN INTERRUPTION 

I T is perfectly lovely; but such a name!” 

So far as she knew, Gene Truxton spoke 
solely to herself, unless the frisking chipmunk 
which darted in and out of the shadow of the 
great pine might have become an unconscious 
object for the comment. Her hat had been dis- 
carded, and her hair fell moist about her face. 
Her eyes followed the single street of the town, 
which accommodated itself to the windings of 
the canyon till an impudent ridge shut the upper 
end from view. Beyond that, the mountains 
rose abruptly from a scant margin of level 
ground. On the other side, the stream rushed 
in white anarchy over gray boulders and ruby 
sand. The lower slopes were togaed with 
world-old pines. Higher up the larches and 
hemlocks fringed the cliffs with ruffles of blue- 
green. 

The girl’s glance ranged over the seamed' 
uplift with a wondering awe. The receding 
shoulders withdrew from each lower heave till 
the dream-witched peaks slept against the sky. 

7 


8 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


There it was, the cast of the wilderness; the 
patricianism of the steeps. 

“It is wonderful — beautiful! But why did 
they give the place such a name?” The chip- 
munk sat up to hear the question again. 

“I think I can tell you that, if you will per- 
mit me,” said a voice near her. Turning in 
a half-frightened way, Gene saw a tall young 
man moving toward her. His eyes were bent 
indifferently on her face, and he walked with 
the spring of some wild creature. There was a 
kindle of fire in his willful gray eyes which 
stamped him the leader born. 

Gene rose as he came near, and stood looking 
at him questioningly. 

“Hope I didn’t frighten you. Sit down and 
take it easy. Just came down the trail from the 
mine, and this load of drills made it warm work 
— the shade is thoroughly grateful. Stranger 
in camp?” He threw himself on the pine grass, 
motioned her to do the same, then turned his 
glance on her face with a directness she could 
feel. 

“I suppose you would call us strangers; we 
got here last night,” she replied, coloring 
slightly. 

“A summer proposition, I take it — an outing, 
in other words. Don’t suppose you will run up 
a cabin, will you?” 


AN INTERRUPTION 


9 


“If we can't find one already up, we will. 
Papa has been dreaming of a fireplace and the 
luxury of tin dishes so long it would be a posi- 
tive sin to disappoint him. Aunt Ruth is quite 
skeptical about the whole matter, however, and 
insists that we stay in the hotel." 

“Is your father a miner ?" 

“He was, in his earlier life." 

“But not now?" 

“He owns some property here, and is man- 
ager for others." 

“I see. And your mother — ?" 

“My mother — is — dead." The girl's eyes 
become moist. 

“I beg your pardon for that question. Of 
course, all this was none of my business. How 
do you like the layout — I mean the camp and 
the country?" 

“It is splendid, all but the name; that is 
horrid!" 

“I agreed to tell you about that, didn't I? 
Well, it's not a long story, and runs about like 
this: An old prospector in one of the camps 
to the south had a dream that if he would 
go one hundred miles north, he would find 
a region rich in mineral deposits. He told his 
dream to a few, and was promptly set down 
as crazy. But, believing he was led of spirits, 
or Providence, he packed his burro and disap- 


10 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


peared. The next year some miners crossed 
the range and came to this place. They got 
here late in the evening, and made camp for the 
night. The next morning they discovered pros- 
pect holes in the sides of the hills, and before 
noon came upon a place where a campfire had 
been made. Later they discovered the remains 
of the burro, and, not far away, the bones of 
the old miner. A grizzly had done for them 
both. But he had struck it — struck it rich. So 
they called the camp Deadman, and that’s the 
history of the case. I don’t know about the 
dream part of it. Some would say an angel 
visited the old trailer, but not I.” 

While he was speaking, Gene studied his 
face closely. There was no doubt about its 
being interesting. Contrary to most of his 
class, he was clean-shaven. He had remarkable 
eyes; but there was that in them which told of 
storm-like passion and sin. His teeth were set 
evenly in a firm jaw, and his mouth, though 
framed in almost womanly tenderness, showed 
unconquerable determination. Handsome and 
wicked, was what Gene decided. She especially 
liked his high, straight forehead and tumbled 
brown hair. Then, he was broad of shoulder 
without being burly, and knit like wire. The 
cast of his features reminded her of ancient 
Greek models, and she always had been an ad- 


AN INTERRUPTION 


11 


mirer of the old art Not over twenty-eight, she 
decided regarding his age. 

But, if there were things about this man 
which were interesting, there were also some 
things to be regretted. Once he used an oath 
and was not aware of it. His self-assurance 
made her uneasy. There was the independence 
of a mountain flood about him. 

“You will get used to the name all right,” 
he finished, turning toward her. 

“Perhaps,” she replied, fluttering the leaves 
of the little morocco copy of St. John which 
lay in her lap. 

“Do you believe that?” he asked abruptly, 
almost brutally. 

“I do. Don’t you?” Gene kindled at his 
words. The frankness of this man was not the 
least of his qualities. 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, I think it would be the truth if I should’ 
say I was born a doubter — that’s about it. My 
folks look at those things as you do, and they 
are a docile people. My brothers never chased 
anything but corn-rows and quaking coons. 
They go to church every Sunday, and tell 
stories to the children. But that was not for 
me. I was wild as the winds, and longed for 
action. I read of men with brawn, men of 


12 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


courage, and I longed to be with them. I had 
a thirst for the mountains and the desert. I 
wanted the open land, the vast spaces, and I 
came to them. None of the other for me; I 
never could get down to that” He seemed to 
find satisfaction in his declarations, also in the 
slight expression of worry on the girl's face. 
Suddenly his manner changed. 

“There, I didn't mean to be abrupt. Don't 
pay any attention to what I said.” 

“I won't,” she replied, with a smile. 

He looked up quickly* attracted by the color- 
less tone of her voice, and his glance seemed 
to penetrate to her brain. Then his eyes 
clouded. It was evident that he was accus- 
tomed to having his way with women. There 
was that about him which showed that he was 
not in the habit of meeting a difference of 
opinion, so far as they were concerned. 

In a moment his face cleared. “What were 
you reading?” he asked, reaching for the book. 

“It was where Christ cleansed the temple,” 
she answered, indicating the place with her 
finger. 

“Oh, I see. He is speaking of prayer. Do 
you believe in that?” There was almost impa- 
tience in his tone, something which told her that 
her answer would confirm or destroy a some- 
what favorable opinion he had formed of her. 


AN INTERRUPTION 


13 


‘T do, certainly,” Gene replied, returning 
his glance with eyes as steady and fearless as 
his. 

For some time he continued looking at her, 
as if to adjust her to a new mental conception. 

'‘You believe prayer is answered, then, of 
course ?” 

“Yes, when it should be — when it is best 
for us.” 

“I see. Well, then, suppose you try it on 
me.” A bantering smile played over his mouth 
as he uttered the challenge. 

“I will,” Gene replied firmly. 

He broke into rollicking laughter. “That 
will do for fair. But, had you known me just 
a little, you would have hesitated before making 
that contract. Frankly, I am rather wild when 
it comes to the melee and the bar mixtures, and 
— I swear.” 

“I know you do; you have done so since 
talking to me. I am sure you would enjoy a 
fight.” 

“Have I?” he asked, coloring. “But you 
will have to get used to that if you stay here 
very long,” he continued, doggedly. 

“But I shall not get used to it!” Her voice 
was decided. 

“Your church notions will have to be pretty 
well rooted to stand the strain in this region. 


14 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Fve seen a good many wilt after coming here. 
They hold out all right for a time, then the tide 
catches them, and down they go. But one can 
have a place to draw the line without that. I 
only go so far; Fm not all bad.” 

“That’s encouraging.” She smiled tanta- 
lizingly. 

“Do you consider it so?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you think you can resist the general 
order of things here?” 

“I certainly do — my views are quite deeply 
set.” 

“But I had no thought of making a con- 
fession.” 

“It would not injure you, I venture, and it 
was that in part.” 

He smiled. “I am a long road from repent- 
ance, even for the bad I permit myself.” 

“There is not a doubt of that,” she agreed 
frankly. 

“You read me for a thoroughly hard case, 
then?” 

“You say it yourself; why should I doubt 
it?” 

“But I’m honest, and I won’t steal. There’s 
a lot of things I won’t do. I won’t murder or 
lie.” 


“There’s plenty left. 


AN INTERRUPTION 


15 


He looked up quickly, and the gray eyes 
clashed with the blue ones. In that look she 
saw that she had misjudged him. 

“You should not say such things about 
yourself. You know the law is to rate one at 
his own estimate.” 

“That’s true, no doubt. But men are not 
hypocrites in this country ; they don’t wear 
masks. They look the goodly sun in the face 
and drink the wine of life from a scented 
chalice. What they are, they are; though I 
hardly think the bland-faced gentleman who 
holds out in camp as the oracle of the Super- 
natural, would care to receive these men, who 
go about with the bark on, into his communion.” 

“There’s a minister here, then?” 

“Yes, I suppose you would call him that. 
He poses as quite a missionary to the heathen.” 

“I am glad to hear that. It certainly means 
much for one to bury himself in such a place 
for the good he can do.” 

“I do not agree with you. Compare this 
land with the one he came from. Overstocked 
with preachers, who talk the same old things 
over to the same sleepy listeners where it has 
been done for generations. All their mole-hills 
are named, and every duck puddle is exalted 
into a lake. Over there is a cornfield; down 
the lane is a clump of maples and a schoolhouse ; 


16 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


while on every hand it’s all a dead level. Their 
streams are agony in mud. Their feet are weak 
from flat walking. It’s a humdrum existence 
which he was lucky — whether we are or not — 
to get out of. Look at this land. Those peaks, 
with snow that never melts, and wild goats on 
the cliffs. These forests and canyons, as full 
of mystery as the heart is of blood. Listen to 
the streams down there, white and clear as 
starlight. Don't pity him, please; he's found 
his chance to do something — but he* won't; it's 
not in him. But he'll just suit you, I am sure, 
for he talks eternally about college, and has all 
the dapper airs of the elite East. But there's 
not a color of manhood in him." 

Gene passed the reflection with a smile. 
“Perhaps; I have known many good men in 
the ministry — some very good." The last words 
might bear something of an explanation, he 
thought. 

“How about the others?" 

“I never found them doing wrong. But one 
has the right of choice, even in the ministry, 
you know." 

“I have a contempt for the whole thing. 
Somehow, it has always seemed ridiculous to 
me to want the Infinite to hold out in a house. 
I’d rather have a canyon for a church, with 
the streams and the winds for a choir. The 


AN INTERRUPTION 


17 


old pines take choice texts when they preach, 
and there is dignity in their messages.” 

“He is everywhere,” Gene replied, reverent- 
ly, charmed with the man’s naturalness of soul 
and love of nature. 

After that they were silent for some time. 
From below came the crush of the stamps in 
the quartz-mill, keeping their iron dance over 
the ore. A blue film lay deep and restful on 
the tumbled hills. Here and there a peak accen- 
tuated the green immensity with a clear, white 
face. There was a flame of lark’s songs in the 
air, and vespers in the pine tops. Down one 
of the mountain trails came a long line of 
mules; a packtrain was going into camp below 
the town. Gene watched the deft men casting 
ofif the loads, and the animals rolling gratefully 
in the grass. 

“It is grand!” she agreed, her glance roam- 
ing over the purple vastness. “I know I shall 
love it; I love it now.” 

“This is my God; I worship it!” he ex- 
claimed, taking in earth and sky with a sweep 
of his hand. “I could bow down to these clififs 
and the moonlight on the lakes; for they speak 
an exalted language to me.” 

“Rather, the One who made all these is to 
be worshiped,” she corrected; but he did not 
seem to hear her. 


18 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“When the worst there is in me gets loose, 
and I feel like setting up a twenty-to-the-ounce 
objection to everything in general, I get out 
under the hemlocks, and listen to the winds 
praying in the bunch grass, and the steps of 
God in the pines, and I lose the fever in a little 
while and get the right relation of things again. 
None of your sallow-faced chaps such as this 
one here, cut out for tea parties and lawn 
sociables, will do for me. He’s one of those 
fellows made to order. Already he has the 
long-drawn tone of the pulpit, with the patented 
mannerisms. To lose them would be to forfeit 
his standing. What can such a chap know 
about what may be in the back yard of an 
ordinary man’s soul?” 

“I am sorry the missionary has impressed 
you so unfavorably.” 

“He’ll suit you, I think,” he replied, rising 
and swinging the bundle of drills to his shoul- 
der. “I must get on. Jim will think I have 
lost the trail — Jim’s my partner — and doubtless 
you will be glad to be restored to your thoughts 
and quiet. Hope you will not be unduly shocked 
at the way things are done here. So-long, till 
I see you again.” He took a few steps, then 
turned back: “My name’s Borden, Paul Borden. 
That’s my cabin dowrn there on the slope. Tell 
your father to call around, and I’ll treat him 


AN INTERRUPTION 


19 


white. If there’s anything I can do to help you 
get settled, let me know.” 

"He’ll be glad to meet you, I am sure,” she 
replied. 

She had risen, and stood watching him as he 
went down the mountain. There was no 
denying it, he was different from any man she 
ever had known. 


II 


SELECTING A CABIN 

T HE cabin which Superintendent Truxton 
selected stood in a crinkle of glades, back 
from and above the main street of the town. 

There was a fringe of firs rimming the 
openings, while several century-old trees cast 
their shadows over the house. As she worked, 
Gene could hear the wind rehearsing some old 
sorrow among their branches, and she found 
herself trying to fathom the cosmic sadness in 
it. A spring burst from the hill near by, like a 
ruptured artery, and ran with wrinkled face 
through a trough. At the end it leaped, a glit- 
tering bow, into a keg. Gene had gone there 
repeatedly for water, watching the bucket fill 
with a feeling that she inherited some vast full- 
ness; for as often as she placed it under the 
white saber it overflowed, yet she seemed in no 
way to have interfered with the supply. For a 
moment there was the changing sound — the 
flurry of bubbles — then the bucket ran over 
— and the flashing span curved as before. 

All morning she had assailed the oily ac- 
20 


SELECTING A CABIN 


21 


cumulations which the miners had permitted, 
who built the cabin. Kettles of soapy water sim- 
mered on the stove, which the two women had 
demanded in opposition to Superintendent Trux- 
ton’s wish to eat meat from a frying-pan and 
his bread out of a Dutch oven. With much 
good-natured opposition he had made brick dust 
and bought various compounds, each with a 
guarantee as an enemy of dirt. 

By noon the cabin, which was a double one, 
was so far in order that Gene felt free to begin 
cooking. Aunt Ruth had retired to a cool seat 
under the trees, leaving the girl to follow her 
whims in the finishing touches to be given 
things. A few minutes before the meal was 
ready, her father appeared, smacking his lips 
and sniffing vigorously. 

“Well, now, Gene girl, this is something like 
it. A whifif of the good old days of sixty-two, 
when we put up our cabins at Florence, and 
Alder Gulch, and Bannock, and bucked the gold 
god at Virginia City,” he said, whisking his hat 
onto the bed. Gene picked it up with a correc- 
tive smile and hung it on a nail. 

“That is the place, papa; and I am sure you 
will appreciate it when I tell you I hit my 
fingers at least three times before I could get it 
started. Was there ever a woman carpenter?” 

“I am grateful for the sacrifice, Gene, and 


22 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


I shall use it — if I don’t forget.” He looked at 
her with a twinkle in his eyes. 

“But you mustn’t. If you could only see 
what disorder I found in these rooms, I am sure 
you would vote me thanks for the appearance of 
things. The logs were disfigured with tobacco 
tabs, and I could have filled a box with whisky 
bottles and baking-powder cans. On the win- 
dow I found a coil of fuse — I guess you call it 
that — and some broken drills. And this table 
was saturated with grease! I came near losing 
faith in men for once, unless such things are 
not a test of character.” 

“But they’re not all that way, Gene. Some 
are neat as wax. Came past a cabin over there 
by the trail, where a young fellow was fixing 
things around, and stopped to ask him a few 
questions, got a glimpse inside — it was spot- 
less. Let me see — Borden, Borden; that was 
the name he gave me, I think. Don’t believe 
you’d find any trash in his cupboard.” 

“How about the bottles?” 

“Oh, like as not he’s one of the boys when 
it comes to that. But you must remember 
drinking is part of the life of a camp, though 
I never used much of it myself.” 

“I think it is awful,” Gene objected. “It 
tends to everything that’s bad.” 

“Yes, yes, that is so. I don’t care to argue 


SELECTING A CABIN 


23 


the point. I’ve seen what it will do. Leads to 
death — and worse.” 

“It seems too bad that he should insult such 
a body with that poison,” Gene spoke almost 
resentfully. 

“What do you know about him?” The old 
man looked at her as if he would welcome a 
chance to tease some one. 

“He intruded into my shade long enough 
yesterday -for me to learn that he drinks, at least 
on occasion, and that he is an infidel,” she 
replied, coloring a little. 

“Does seem too bad that a young fellow will 
tempt Providence that way, don’t it?” 

“Do be serious, papa,” Gene protested, as- 
suming a little resentment. 

“I am thoroughly in earnest, child; I mean 
every word of it. But I think your meat is 
burning; better see to it. Did I say I was 
hungry ?” 

“Men are always hungry, by authority of 
the old saying.” 

“More truth than anything else in that. 
Something about being in the mountains makes 
a fellow wolfish. It’s grand, Gene, girl! Hear 
the pines out there. Many’s the time I’ve kept 
awake to listen to that sound, when the rest 
of the boys were asleep. It’ll make one melan- 
choly, if he don’t have a care. Once the passion 


24 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


of it gets into the blood, it stays — stays, that's 
all. I've gone to my room in the great hotels, 
and found myself wishing I was back under 
the clear sky, with my blankets spread on the 
bare ground; a water-hole for a looking-glass, 
and a tuft of needles for a chair. Now I’m 
back to it, thank Heaven! and I want to enjoy 
it to the full. Sometime you'll make coffee for 
me in the fireplace, where it can spill over, and 
bread in the Dutch oven, and I’ll go back to the 
old times and the old partners." 

“I will, papa," Gene said softly. 

“Yes, yes, do, for they should not be for- 
gotten. Hard cases, some, but honest and 
brave. Leave your sack of dust lying around 
anywhere; no danger that any one would touch 
it. Mountain fever got Arkansaw; Irish Dan 
went under a snowslide. But they were men, 
both of them. On the way to Bannock I took 
the fever, and Arkansaw refused to leave me, 
though every hour reduced his chance to get 
pay dirt. It meant the loss of thousands of 
dollars. Poor old Ark. He sleeps up there 
above the rip of the hydraulics, with the bunch 
grass growing over him; and Dan is under the 
hemlocks and the boulders, thirty feet below 
the surface." 

While her father pursued his reminiscent 
train of thought, Gene put the victuals on the 


SELECTING A CABIN 


25 


table. Aunt Ruth came in, and the three took 
their places. Superintendent Truxton was very 
cheerful, and Gene was glad. The burden 
of business had fallen from him, and he reveled 
in the crisp, new beauty of the gloriously ap- 
pareled mountains. She looked at his seamed, 
though still handsome, face, with its firm, kind 
mouth; and at his head, covered with iron- 
gray hair. But the touch of age seemed to have 
lifted from him, and something that was young 
had taken its place. 

For an hour he lived in old memories of 
camp and trail, rehearsing trials and experiences 
Gene never had heard before, while the nard of 
pine and laurel floated through the open window. 
Leaving her father and Aunt Ruth to finish 
their meal at leisure, Gene went out under the 
trees, and stood looking down on the wind of 
the street, and the clean, blue swoon of the hills 
beyond. She tried to fathom the charm of it. 
In what did the spell consist? She could not 
tell ; but already it was stealing over her ; taking 
her in the witch-net which knows no breaking. 
How remote and unreachable the far heights 
seemed. Shoulder above shoulder they heaved 
themselves upward; cliff above cliff, they grew 
almost intangible in the turquoise air. The dis- 
tant trees seemed suspended in pale mist. Never 
had she seen such sunshine. The touch of the 


26 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


atmosphere was electric, sending the blood in 
wild riot through the body. With all the charm 
and wonder of it came a call, a pure passionate 
wish. If only she could melt into the dream of 
it and be lost. It was love — love without fear 
of pain or hate. The pines knew about it; the 
laurel knew the secret ; the arrowwood blew 
snowy for some vast bridal. Down the flowered 
dells and grassy vistas came an irresistible wish, 
and Gene felt her soul rush to meet it. It was 
the joy of pure freedom, calling to her from cliff 
and peak. Something within her stirred. Po- 
tential passion, pure as its prompting element, 
burned unconsciously at the opal core of her be- 
ing — burned there like diamond fire. In that 
moment she was born again. Now she must 
scale the heights, and thread the canyons to 
their deer-haunted nooks. 

From the roadway came the clatter of ore- 
wagons, and she turned to watch them. Men 
were passing in the street; some with picks and 
shovels on their shoulders; others laden with 
rolls of blankets. Here and there nebulous clus- 
ters told where some topic of interest, or pros- 
pect of a fray, had drawn groups together. 
They also indicated the situation of the different 
saloons and dance-halls, in which the feverish 
games were forever at white heat. 

Gene shuddered as she looked down on that 


SELECTING A CABIN 


27 


strange world, so far removed from her own. 
Any thought of ever penetrating those sin- 
haunted precincts was as far from her as an 
intention to leap into the sea. 

As she gazed, there was a commotion among 
several of the groups. In an instant they had 
dissolved like mist; and where a moment before 
there had been many, now only two remained. 
Gene watched them draw apart; watched sev- 
eral births of blue smoke, and heard as many 
rattling reports go crashing among the listening 
cliffs. A street fight was in progress, and the 
contestants were settling their differences in the 
way of gentlemen. It was all over in a minute, 
and something limp was taken up from the 
street by several men; then the crowds gathered 
once more at the saloon fronts, and the hot 
heart of the camp beat on as before. 

Gene did not fully grasp the meaning of 
what she had seen. Doubtless, it was but one 
feature of the raw wickedness which flaunted 
its scarlet signals on every hand. 

A step caused her to turn, and she saw a 
tall young man before her, smiling and bowing, 
while he offered something of an apology for 
his interruption. Gene took him in at a glance. 
The smooth, pale face was full of a certain kind 
of agreeableness, and his eyes were better than 
the average. There was a shade of melancholy 


28 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


about him which seemed to be partly assumed. 

He removed his hat, revealing a good-enough 
head, covered with light hair, the upper thinness 
of which indicated early baldness. The stamp 
of his “calling” was on him. There was no mis- 
taking him, he was the missionary. 

“I hope my desire to spread the kingdom did 
not make me intrude before you were settled in 
housekeeping. But one must be up and doing, 
for the wolves will get in if the shepherd does 
not guard the flock, you know.” He smiled, re- 
vealing a set of rather large teeth. Gene won- 
dered what wolves he had fear of regarding her, 
but answered otherwise: 

“We were quite in order by noon, and now 
are ready for callers.” 

“Then, I have not intruded; that is good, 
very good. You see, I am on the lookout for 
new arrivals in my field — my camp. I met 
Superintendent Truxton yesterday, and learned 
that you are here for the summer at least — ” 
He paused reflectively. “I should have told you 
that I am the missionary to this whitened field. 
The assembly believed that there might be a few 
who could be won to the cause of our holy re- 
ligion, so I gave up my prospects for advance- 
ment, surrendered my life to this very trying 
field, at least for a year. I hope you are in sym- 
pathy with the work.” 


SELECTING A CABIN 


29 


“Perfectly,” Gene replied, wondering, in an 
amused way, at the length of the consecration. 
“I should say there are many difficulties in such 
a place as this.” 

“It is indeed so. The saloon element is 
utterly beyond the power of religion. It seems 
that those who congregate there are utterly in- 
different to every good impulse. I have made 
great effort to interest them,’ but it is impossible. 
You will understand the situation better when I 
tell you that only one man has celebrated the 
sacrament since my arrival.” 

“There have been women at the com- 
munion ?” 

“Yes, yes; and we have a very hopeful Sun- 
day school. I dote on that.” 

“You have organized, then?” 

“Yes, I found a score or so who were willing 
to unite, so I formed them into a society. They 
are really enthusiastic. Last week the ladies 
gave a banquet to the several superintendents, 
and the affair was most gratifying. The only 
hope of our work is to get the support of those 
of culture and means, you understand. Think 
of it, the wife of the owner of the Red Warrior 
mine is superintendent of the Sunday school. 
Isn’t that nice? Her husband is very wealthy. 
Really, there seems to be an outlook for the faith 
here.” The expression on the missionary’s face 


30 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


showed that he was well satisfied with his 
management of things. 

At this moment Superintendent Truxton 
came out of the cabin. 

“Ah, like a good pastor should, you are out 
seeking the lost sheep, I see. Gene, this is 
Doctor — er — ” 

“Conrad Morton,” supplied the missionary, 
with a manifest pleasure in the resonance of the 
words. 

“Yes, yes, that’s it. Gene knows that for- 
getting names is my fault — among many” — 
winking at the missionary. “I suppose that you 
are acquainted by this time; if not, this is my 
daughter, Doctor Morton — did I get that 
right?” 

The minister bowed low. 

“I assumed as much. Really, there is a strik- 
ing resemblance between father and child.” 

“Be careful, or Gene will be cross with you,” 
laughed the superintendent. 

“You dear old daddy; you know I always 
have been proud of that fact,” Gene protested. 

“Well, then, suppose I get offended — eh?” 

“You may if you wish, there might be a 
cause for it. Papa is a born tease, and you will 
have to excuse him, or forgive him, as I do.” 

“You’ll find this girl ready for any office, 
Doctor, for she is interested in religious work, 


SELECTING A CABIN 


31 


as you call it ; I can bear witness to that, for she 
keeps me bankrupt begging for the different 
offerings; I know by that she is interested. ,, 

“So are you, papa. You would give out the 
idea that I have the faith of the family. Aunt 
Ruth would be wretched if she could not attend 
church, and really I like to go, I’m sure I do.” 

“We have a place for Miss Truxton now. 
Our organist is thinking of leaving, and she is 
unable to attend regularly, so there is a door 
for large good already open to you. You will 
accept, Miss Truxton?” He bent his glance upon 
her with an expression of certainty as to her 
answer. “Come,” he insisted. “Folks find it 
impossible to resist my appeals ; you must 
agree.” 

“But suppose I can’t play — ” 

“But suppose that I happen to know you can, 
and that beautifully, Miss Truxton,” he beamed. 

“That’s some more of papa’s doings. Really, 
I should punish you soundly.” Gene tangled her 
fingers in her father’s beard, and pretended to 
administer a much-needed chastisement, while 
the missionary stood watching her, very well 
pleased with her goodly face and form. Yes, he 
would think about it ; he would study her closely, 
for Conrad Morton must make no mistake in 
the choice of a wife. 

Gene turned at the repetition of his question, 


32 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


and caught the look of interest in his glance. 
“If there is anything I can do, in a quiet way, to 
help along, I don’t mind doing it. But you must 
not count on me alone,” she raised her hand and 
waved it toward the uplands, sleeping in filmy 
haze — “they call me, and I must go. When I 
am present, and there is no one else, then I will.” 

The missionary bowed. “Thank you,” he 
said submissively, a note of disappointment in 
his voice, and a little self-assurance gone from 
his manner. “That can be attended to.” 

“You folks can fix matters. I have an ap- 
pointment down in the camp. Come any time, 
and welcome, Doctor. God bless you, sir ! God 
bless you!” With a wave of the hand, and a 
sly look at Gene, the old man went down the 
trail whistling. 

“Do any of the miners attend your services, 
Doctor Morton?” Gene asked, a baffling look in 
her eyes. 

“Very few of the ordinary pick-and-shovel 
men have been present. There is a ruling spirit 
of evil among them, a wild, reckless fellow, who 
seems to delight in insulting me — Borden, they 
call him. He came a few times, but I think only 
to find occasion for contempt. I am quite sure 
I could impress many of them if it were not for 
this man. I have taken great pains with my dis- 
courses, and have gone thoroughly into the 


SELECTING A CABIN 


33 


Greek text, so that I have been ready with much 
choice food which they would have enjoyed ; but 
this fellow will not let them come to the table of 
the Lord. He is very strong; a thing, by the 
way, he is quite proud of; and he is given to 
desperate brawls in the saloons. I am told that 
when aroused he throws men bodily through 
the doors. It is perfectly terrible, for they say 
he takes great delight in their consternation and 
fright. I shudder when I meet him, for he 
seems to be waiting a chance to lay hands on 
me.” The missionary looked his disgust, passed 
his hands in opposite directions from the perfect 
part of his hair, drew and unfolded a handker- 
chief, and passed it inside his collar and across 
his mouth, then returned it to the back pocket 
of his flowing coat. 

“He must be a very wretched character/’ 
Gene assented, drawing the picture in her mind 
of a very disgusting person. 

“There he is now/’ said the missionary, turn- 
ing toward the trail, which followed the tiny 
ridge up to the saddle of the main divide. “He 
goes out of his way to insult me; but I will de- 
feat his plans this time. Good-by, Miss Trux- 
ton. Remember, the music is to be in your 
hands — when it is possible. We have holy com- 
munion next Sabbath. I shall expect you, and 
hope you will — ah — be pleased with my preach- 


34 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


in g.” There was such a manner of certainty 
in this that Gene was convinced of the mission- 
ary’s own belief that possibly she would be will- 
ing to be pleased. 

She watched the tall, muscleless figure tak- 
ing the grade of the hill with jolts and uncouth 
angularities. His long hands were open, and 
swinging aimlessly from the wrists. 

“How does he strike you?” The words re- 
called her, and she turned toward Borden, who 
stood in the trail above her, the sharpened drills 
on his shoulder. There was a mocking smile on 
his lips, and good-natured banter in his eyes. 

In spite of herself, Gene colored, and out of 
the tumult of her thoughts could frame no reply 
just then. 

“I see you are quite favorably impressed. I 
knew you would be; I told you that yesterday. 
Nice coat he wears — eh? Makes me laugh every 
time I see it.” 

Gene resented the air of certainty with 
which he seemed to think his view of the case 
was the correct one. No matter what her pri- 
vate opinion might be, she recognized the right 
of the missionary to wear the kind of coat he 
wished, and to put white rose perfume on his 
handkerchief if he chose to do so. Besides, Aunt 
Ruth always had insisted that a minister should 
bear the stamp of his calling, and appear in the 


SELECTING A CABIN 


35 


most dignified manner possible. For a moment 
she was tempted to ignore the presence of the 
self-conceited man, who stood watching her with 
an amused light in his face. Then she recalled 
herself, lifted her glance to his, and met his 
steady glance with one as strong. 

“At any rate, I think he is a gentleman,” she 
said in a low voice. 

A burst of chesty laughter greeted this bit of 
sarcasm. Though she was half angry, Gene 
recognized something masterful in it. 

“So that is what society calls a gentleman, is 
it? Well, perhaps so, but it’s a product worth 
very little among men. Guess I don’t want to 
be one, if that is what the word means. Why; 
that chap goes through the camp with oiled hair, 
and wearing that confounded coat, which makes 
him look like the tall man at the circus, yet he 
expects to stand in with these miners who wear 
overalls and blue flannel shirts. Bah, I feel a 
contempt for such a make-up, and sometimes go 
out of my way to make him feel it.” 

“He told me you were in the habit of doing 
that.” 

Borden looked pleased. “Did he? Good! 
I want him to know it. Think of it! A miner 
was shot in a saloon row, and had to die, so we 
sent for this band-box chap to come up to the 
Elk Horn to see what he could do. Did he 


36 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


come ? Sure, but in that outlandish rig, smelling 
of white rose and lavender water. What did 
the boys do? Why, they poured several mugs 
of beer over the outfit, while they were getting 
the man on a table so the minister would not 
have to get down in the clutter. We thought he 
would have sense enough to wear a man’s clothes 
after that, but it seems he has several of those 
outfits, for he immediately came out in another, 
but with a vow that he would attend no more 
funerals in a saloon. Since then we let them die, 
and then he puts them away very solemnly. All 
the women like him, though, and, of course, I 
knew you would. They are down there every 
Sunday singing psalms, and listening to his hog- 
wash, while better men stay in their cabins or 
shovel dirt against the commandment. I don’t 
believe in religion, but, if there is such a thing, 
it is ten States from that chap, all right.” As 
he finished, Borden’s hand went mechanically to 
his pocket and drew forth a piece of tobacco. 
With the end of his finger he removed something 
objectionable from the place where he intended 
to set his teeth, drew the square across the side 
of his canvas overalls, and then removed a 
generous amount with a prying up-and-down 
motion. 

The unconsciousness of the action amused 
Gene so much that she forgot her resentment of 


SELECTING A CABIN 


37 


a moment ago, and, with eyes that danced, 
asked, “Does the missionary use tobacco ?” 

Borden looked vexed, then he laughed. Tak- 
ing the tobacco from his mouth, he threw it 
into the laurel. 

“IBs a worthless habit — as all habits are, and 
I answer the demand without the use of my 
wits. I am quite sure the preacher does not use 
it. It takes a man to make a success of a thing 
like that.” Borden could not resist the tempta- 
tion for one more fling at the object of his con- 
tempt. 

“You consider yourself quite a man, then?” 

“I try to keep my end up in everything that 
requires iron,” he replied almost impatiently. 

“Even to throwing men out of the saloons, 
bodily, and upsetting the furniture in the dance- 
halls?” 

“I see that animated sapling has been giving 
you my history. Tell him to stick to his psalms 
and Greek, or Til dip his sallow head in the 
creek.” 

Borden was angry. It was Gene’s turn to 
laugh, and she did, the clear music of it echoing 
along the glade. He looked at her keenly for a 
moment, relaxed, and shared in her mirth. 
In that glance his eyes were opened. She 
was different from the other women he had 
known. The wife of the man in charge of the 


38 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Lucky Boy mine had shown a willingness to flirt 
with him; the unmarried girls of the place were 
quite easy to obtain — even for the asking; the 
creatures who frequented the dance-halls — bah, 
they were not to be given a thought. But this 
girl was not as any of these. At first he had 
taken his estimate of her from those he had met, 
but now he saw that it was necessary for him to 
make a new adjustment. Not that he did not 
make a difference, but those women who had 
come in contact with his life he had found so 
perfectly human, so much after a common order, 
that he very naturally put them together in one 
class. For the married women he had felt con- 
tempt; for the girls of the town, a passing 
amusement; for the creatures in the dance-halls, 
something that was like pity. Wild, stormy in 
his blasphemy, and given to a free fight as a tur- 
tle to the mud, yet he had been the mystery to 
his more Bohemian companions, for with bluff 
temper he had cursed down every suggestion of 
impurity which any aspiring spirit of evil dared 
to suggest. 

“To h — 1 with you! A man's got to draw 
the line somewhere, and that's the place for me,'' 
was his customary way of getting rid of the 
troubling seducer. 

But this girl, standing clean as a nymph 
under the pines, belonged to none of these. 


SELECTING A CABIN 


39 


There was that about her which reminded him 
of twilight. She was like an embodiment from 
the whisper in the canary grass. For a time he 
stood watching her with eyes into which visions 
were coming. Suddenly he was aware that he 
had seen this girl just as she was in her own 
atmosphere. He had been in the habit of think- 
ing of women as a class, and not as individuals. 
This woman was individual. He found himself 
interested, and with the consciousness came a 
feeling of rebellion. 

“Did you remember your promise ?” he 
asked, wishing to change the trend of his 
thoughts. 

“What promise ?” 

“Forgot it already, I see. Perhaps you think 
I’m not worth it — and I guess Pm not.” 

“You speak of what was said about prayer?” 

“Yes.” 

“I remembered you,” she answered, coloring 
a little under his steady gaze. 

“Guess you better not waste your time on 
me. The chap who was talking to you a moment 
ago can have my portion.” 

“But you certainly need it, for your life is 
very wicked, according to your own account,” 
she replied firmly. 

At this he vdiistled shrilly, then he laughed 
in the dashing, unrestrained way which was his. 


40 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Do you think so?” he blurted, very much 
amused. 

“No, I am certain of it,” she replied quietly. 

“Well, then, go ahead, and here's good luck 
to you.” 

He threw the drills to his shoulder, and, with 
a little wave of his hand, swung up the trail. 
Gene watched till a fringe of mountain cherry 
hid him from sight. There was about him an 
element of fitness which challenged admiration. 
She was possessed of a feeling that in him great 
elements for good were being perverted. That, 
with all his frankness of manner and speech, he 
yet was one to be trusted. With a sigh she. 
sank upon a tuft of pine grass and remained 
a long time looking dreamily at the brothering 
ranges. 


Ill 


THE COMING OF MOODS 

W ITH no sense of weariness, Borden swung 
up the trail to the mine which he owned 
jointly with James Kelly, the rollicking Irish 
blade, who cheered the camp with his wit and 
songs. 

His thoughts were in a tumult, and he found 
it impossible to laugh away the recollection of 
the strange girl who had dared to call him a 
sinner. That was new; he was not used to it, 
and it made him half angry. In his heat, he 
made all manner of comparisons and conjectures 
regarding her, always with one returning cer- 
tainty — she was different. It did not occur to 
him that some of this might be accounted for in 
her religion, and, had he thought of it, he would 
have rejected it with an oath. She was differ- 
ent from other women exactly as the hemlocks 
were different from the oaks, and the aspen 
from the pine. That was all. 

When he reached the mouth of the tunnel, 
he threw down the drills, and, removing his hat, 
stood looking into it, seeing the breeze-blown 

41 


42 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


hair and face of Gene Truxton. A half-hour 
later he went into the tunnel and tried to work, 
but, after striking a drill for an hour, he threw 
it aside, filled the car with rock, and pushed 
it to the dump. With a kick he drove out the 
pin and sent the fragments rolling down the 
slope. Then, climbing well up the face of the 
mountain, over which the June sun fell like 
powdered gold, he threw himself at full length 
in the grass. His glance ranged languidly over 
the tumbled stretches of ridges and canyons. 

Deep in the gray troughs of the upper range 
lay irregular patches of snow. There it would 
shimmer till the storms came again. Out of 
these treasuries of the winter the white waters 
came dancing through the valleys. There were 
glorious blue lakes up there, walled in by 
splintered cliffs. About these bright surprises 
clung a haunting beauty. There the wild goats 
came to drink. Borden lay sensing the dream- 
drench and power of it all. Far below, at the 
bottom of the gulch, a cluster of willows and 
cherry indicated the presence of a spring, which 
seemed to be the “thank you” of the verbiage to 
the “welcome” of the water. A mother grouse 
led her brood close by where he lay, repeating 
endlessly a low love note, picking at the blades 
of grass, and pursuing choice grasshoppers for 
dessert. Over the land lay a maddening some- 


THE COMING OF MOODS 


43 


thing, personified, yet abstract. It is this name- 
less power, this transcendent charm, vaguely 
real, yet unapproachable, which dominates 
every spirit which passes behind the enchanted 
vail. 

The greasewood was in bloom, and the odor 
of it lay cloy on the air. Borden broke a spray 
of piute flower, and looked intently at the crim- 
son leaves. The Indian maidens had decked 
their black hair with it in their willow bridals. 
He would read the riddle of its flowers. The 
red stood for love — that was enough — he 
laughed, and the wind snatched it up and took 
it to the pines, and the pines sighed over his 
mood. He repeatedly went over all she had said 
to him. Sometimes he was angry; again, he was 
amused. Then, being a conceited man, he pur- 
posed to teach the lady a lesson. Again he 
grew thoughtful. In the end, he did what 
it would be impossible for such a nature not 
to do, he cast his entire ballot for the girl 
who had had the courage to tell him his faults; 
and who, strange to say, had been able easily 
to withstand the force of his good looks. In her 
clear eyes he had read a strength of character 
which utterly discounted every point on which 
he had depended for a standing among the fair 
ones of the camp. This was not pleasant, for 
they were all he had, and he found now that 


44 


THE ANGEL O’ DEAD MAN 


he wished to be on good terms with this girl. 
He was like a wild horse taken in a loop. With- 
out reasoning it out, Borden knew that a duel 
was on between them. Such was his nature that 
he could leave no battlefield till he had made 
the last possible effort to win. In this case 
somebody must surrender, and he was deter- 
mined it would not be his flag that should be 
hauled down first. Cherokee Smith had come 
to Deadman, confident in his ability to over- 
match any man in the camp ; he met Borden and 
left him with humbled crest, for he had been 
thrown completely over the bar in the Lone 
Pine Saloon. Came Solo Moore, who had the 
advantage of reach and weight, but he went 
down before the swift-handed miner. Hans, the 
Swede, and Billy, the puncher, fared no better. 
But now Borden was forced to own that he 
fought at a disadvantage, for no blow he could 
strike at astral eyes, and a face with the pure 
seeming of flowers in it, would avail, seeing that 
he must wage a war of words with the actions of 
a gentleman. At the end of an hour it had been 
voted a draw when he fought Irish Conally; 
but Borden remembered with a grim smile that 
he had been perfectly fit for the tunnel the 
next day, while his enemy had been compelled 
to miss ten shifts. But he was vaguely con- 
scious that the fight which he had taken upon 


THE COMING OF MOODS 


45 


himself now was more difficult than any of 
those in which he had been engaged. Conally 
had refused utterly to meet his antagonist for 
a finish contest, but every swift glance of Gene 
Truxton’s eyes was a challenge — a challenge he 
must answer. The element of contest was a 
strong ingredient in Borden’s nature. Till now 
it had been easy: fight his man; whip him; take 
a drink. That had been his element. 

Suddenly he thought of the missionary, and 
the old dislike stirred within him. Long ago, 
he told himself, he would have given him a 
taste of rough house, had it not been for the 
fact that it would appear like applying the rules 
of boxing to a cradle-roll, yet he was tempted 
to proceed anyway. Was not the missionary 
the nearest thing to Gene Truxton he could 
fight? 

Springing up, he walked to the edge of the 
ridge, and looked down where the Truxton 
cabin stood; but he saw only a thin smear of 
smoke wasting among the trees. He was inter- 
ested even in that. 

Returning that evening through the shadows 
which made witch-maps on the world, Borden 
felt as never before that life was good and 
worth living. Jim met him in the door and 
looked him over curiously. 

“I say, Bord, you look like you’d found a 


46 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


ledge of free milling ore, and wire gold at that 
—eh? What’s the luck?” 

“You know I never went two bits on luck, 
Jim,” Borden replied, pushing past his partner 
and entering the cabin. 

“I understand! Well, perhaps you’d be glad 
to know we have neighbors? We have. Old 
miner — rich, I take it — has moved into the 
cabin where Tex and Bug Juice Hubbard held 
out. But I swear you wouldn’t know the joint; 
it’s like the front of a gambler’s shirt. Why, 
they have a tablecloth on the table and papers 
on the shelves. I tell you, Bord, it looks good 
to this Irishman. Take a peek for yourself 
some day when you are up there.” 

“Seen Frisky?” Borden broke off, referring 
to a chipmunk which had become so tame it 
would eat out of his hand. 

“He was here awhile ago. I chased the 
little beast out of the cabin for stealing dried 
apples. I can’t see the point in feeding that 
commodity to squirrels at twenty cents a pound. 
Pretty blooded for a chipmunk, it strikes me.” 

“That’s so, Jim; but it would be mighty 
lonesome without the little thief, just the same. 
How about supper?” 

“On the way. Beans are done, and the 
bread getting brown in the Dutch oven.” 

Jim went diligently over the different pots, 


THE COMING OF MOODS 


47 


lifting the lids and noting the progress of the 
simmering victuals, dropping a half-cup of cold 
water into the coffee to settle it. After that it 
was set back to wait for the other things. Then 
he took a banjo and began to sing in good voice 
a bit of doggerel: 

“There’s old lame Jess was a hard old case, 

He never would repent; 

He never missed a single meal, 

And he never paid a cent. 

“Yet my heart is filled with the days of yore. 

And oft do I repine 

For the days of old, the days of gold, 

The days of Forty-nine.” 

“Oh, sing something worth listening to, can’t 
you?” growled Borden. 

Jim looked up with a little surprise. 

“What’s struck you, pard? That’s a classic, 
can’t you understand? It’s a gem. The man 
who wrote it struck bed-rock and emptied out 
his soul.” 

“Yes, his soul,” Borden emphasized. 

“How’d this suit you — ?” Jim twanged the 
strings and began: 

“Come, all ye overland drivers 
Bound on the overland. 

To each and every one of you 
I give the parting hand. 

For I’m going to leave this bleak, cold West. 

This wild and stormy plain, 

Where the Indian’s arrow leaves you 
Ne’er to return again.” 


48 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


There was much more of the same quality, 
ending with: 

“And from the girl that I love best 
I’ll never roam again. 

’Twas there, her blue eyes filled with tears, 

She told me she’d be mine: 

My heart is true as yet to her, 

My love will never die.” 

“That's better," Borden commented conclu- 
sively, putting tin dishes on the table. 

“Glad you like it, pard. While you set 
things on, I'll just clip off a bit of my favor- 
ite," whereupon Jim launched into a lost 
romance living only in a few lines of rhyme: 

“I’ll build you a castle 
In some pleasant town, 

Where dukes, lords nor nobles 
Can ne’er break it down. 

And if any one asks you 
How you came to roam, 

Just tell them you’re a strange girl 
And far from your home.” 

“Junk's ready!" Borden broke in, whirling 
two home-made chairs up to the table. 

“So am I," Jim assented, throwing the 
banjo on one of the bunks, and setting upon 
the food in a way which did ample justice to 
his robust health and twenty-five years. 

After a long silence, Jim broke it with: 

“I say, pard, what the old boy 's the matter 
with you, anyway? You act like you were 
contemplating suicide, had struck a mine, or 


THE COMING OF MOODS 


49 


seen a ghost. Or is it marriage? Here I am 
spilling over like a sluice-box, with good nature, 
while you act like you’d signed the pledge, or 
some one had told what they know about 
you, which would be enough to make you blue, 
I’ll agree. Thaw out before I break a shovel 
over you.” 

Borden laughed. “Don’t you think it. 
When I sign the pledge it will be a cold day — 
plenty of frost — hear me?” 

“But about the neighbors, Bord. You know 
it is good manners for the first families to visit 
the newcomers; and that means that we must 
call upon them.” 

“What do you know about good manners, 
you freckle-faced gilly?” Borden bantered. 
“You might tell a mint julep from raw gin, or 
a potato from a squash, but good breeding — 
forget it!” 

“Never mind about my manners, Bord. I’ve 
had my feet under many a table where we 
picked our goose with silver forks, and had a 
choice of meat. Don’t go and get notions about 
my manners, old man.” 

“Exactly. But about this visiting business. 
If one bunch calls on another, that means the 
other bunch must return the call, don’t it?” 

“Which bunch?” 

“Shut up, you Irish swine, you know which 


50 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


bunch. It would mean that we would be on 
the pay-roll for a visit, and that you would 
doubtless have to get in and cook a meal. How 
would you like that?” 

“Fine!” Jim welcomed the idea. ‘Til -show 
them what a miner can do in the line of grub 
if they show up.” 

“Beans and bacon are a little coarse for 
women just from the East,” suggested Borden. 

“Never you mind about that. HI show them 
something besides bacon and beans if they 
come, and you keep your paws off the whole 
business— understand ?” 

“Don’t worry about that, Jim. HI talk 
religion — that is, I’ll argue it — with the girl, 
while you fix the pudding. But mind you, don’t 
come putting your speckled nose in where you 
might get it broke — -get me?” 

“You forget about the Chipmunk.” 

“Which, Frisky?” 

“Oh, hang Frisky! I mean The Color.” 

“There’s more than you interested in her, 
Jim; and I might as well tell you I’ve been 
looking that way myself. Never did think you 
had her anchored very solid.” 

Jim flared up with true Irish temper. “Con- 
found you, Borden! You go bothering around 
that girl and I’ll blow you off the world with 
dynamite.” 


THE COMING OF MOODS 


51 


Borden roared at this, and Jim relapsed 
instantly into a happy frame of mind. 

Twilight fell tenderly over the dream- 
haunted valley. Dark deepened on glade and 
hill, and the candid June stars came out in a 
velvet sky. Ground-owls piped their two 
haunted notes from elfin distance. Borden sat 
outside watching the moon creep down the 
peaks, a pure white mist. Inside, Jim was 
singing: 

“The daughters of Erin are famed the world over, 

For wit and for beauty, for charms all their own. 

But there’s one in the land of the shamrock and clover 
Who is first of the first and second to none.” 

Vaguely, Borden listened to the voice of 
his light-hearted partner. The words came to 
him indistinctly, like a whisper in the hemlocks. 
A light flashed against the misty wall of the half- 
night. Borden smiled at the next train of 
thought which it started, for the gleam came 
from the Truxton cabin. 


IV 


THE COLOR 

ENE TRUXTON’S first Sabbath in Dead- 



man was a mildly pleasant one. She had 
listened to a discourse from Conrad Morton, 
delivered in a very complacent manner. It 
indicated at least a reasonable knowledge of 
Greek. Evidently, the degree had been bestowed 
on one who had some claim to it. 

She had been well schooled in that sort of 
charity, longsuffering on occasion, which sees 
in a minister not so much a man as the thing 
which he represents. This had redeemed many 
uninteresting services for her, and had covered 
unbelievable lapses from ministerial character 
with the veil of forgetfulness. By a simple turn 
of reasoning, she had found something even 
in these failures to strengthen her faith, for 
did not the work of the Nazarene survive all 
scandals ? 

But for once she felt a sense of weariness 
during the service, and was glad when it was 
over. The missionary had seemed at his best, 
however, and rendered his text, first in English 


52 


THE COLOR 


53 


then in Latin, and later in Greek, with many 
glances of assurance toward his fair listener. 
Notwithstanding this, Gene found it impossible 
to keep her thoughts from wandering. The blue 
mountains invited her through the open window, 
their misty summits seeming heaven-distant in 
the pale mist which wrapped them. How the 
folded uplands, with their unwalked dells and 
varieties of wild flowers, seemed to call to her, 
to stretch to her hands of mysterious power. 
She rebuked herself for this mood, shook it 
from her, and struggled to become interested, 
but always with the same result. 

A soft wind, cool and fragrant, came down 
the canyon. With a leap it crossed the window- 
ledge and kissed her cheek like a daring lover. 

In this frame, she drifted from the dis- 
course, left the expounder at his most agree- 
able period of profound comparisons, and gave 
her fancy wings, passed into the dreamy remote- 
ness of nature; far Elfland horns were blowing, 
and they were sweet. 

She was recalled by the rustle of starched 
clothing — the dozen and a half congregation 
was arising for the benediction. A moment 
later, Conrad Morton was before her, bowing 
low, with an air of satisfaction with himself 
which did not escape her. As she left the 
house, Gene thought of Borden. He had said 


54 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


that he went only once to hear the missionary. 
She smiled as she pictured him enduring the 
dry hour, his stormy nature panting for the 
open and action. 

With a feeling of relief, she followed the 
path which wound away from the town through 
mysterious little nooks and shadowy glades, 
past laurel vistas, and over flashing streams. 
As she drew near Borden’s cabin, she saw him 
swing into the trail and move off toward the 
mine. Gene felt something akin to pity for the 
forgetter of the day. He smiled and waved her 
a frank greeting. 

“Been to hear him, have you? Did he feed 
you on Greek?” 

“He told what it meant in the original,” she 
replied. 

“I’d rather pay a cougar to screech in the 
canyon.” 

“Possibly. Every one to his taste, you 
know.” 

He laughed buoyantly. “So it seems to you, 
I suppose. But I can’t stay with it. I tried 
and had to give it up. That fellow gets me. I 
can’t go him a little bit.” 

“This is the third time you have assured me 
of that fact.” 

He bowed aggravatingly. “I am well aware 
of it. The only reason it has not been more 


THE COLOR 


55 


was lack of opportunity. Your idea that religion 
consists in enduring such torture needs an anti- 
dote. I feared that the good impression he 
was making on you might prove too much. ,, 

“Give yourself no unnecessary concern on 
that point,” she flashed, smiling, though her 
words carried something of resentment. 

“Would you, a strict church-member, quarrel 
on Sunday?” He was enjoying the tilt. 

“Nothing is farther from my mind. It is 
unworthy of discussion. But what of your will- 
ful disregard of the commandment? Certainly, 
Mr. Borden, you can do all that is required in 
the week-days, without intruding on time which 
is not yours.” 

“All days are alike to me,” he replied dog- 
gedly. “The grass does not stop growing 
because it is Sunday; nor do the streams quit 
flowing — why should I stagnate a seventh of 
the time?” 

“You should rate yourself above the grass 
and the water — certainly you recognize a differ- 
ence ?” 

“Yes, I fight and swear and drink — at times. 
There's that difference. I suppose you think 
that is enough?” 

“Plenty,” she condensed. 

“That'll do to quit on. Jim will think I've 
gone to church if I don't show up at the mine. 


56 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


By the way, he says it is proper for the old 
resident families to call on the newcomers, so 
you may expect us up some of these times. Jim 
and I are very anxious to observe all the 
amenities, you understand. Adios.” 

With the Spanish termination of the talk, 
Borden went up the trail, leaving the girl half 
angry. He was so sure of himself, so conceited, 
that she always kindled when he bantered her. 

The week was half gone. It was a mild 
June morning. Gene left the cabin and strolled 
through the aspen groves, where the grouse 
were merry at their seed-picking, and the piute 
flower flamed crimson. 

She raised her eyes to the splintered peaks, 
with a little cry of joy. 

“They are mine — all mine! Woods, can- 
yons, wild things, mystery — mine! ,, She caught 
her breath with a passionate intake, and her 
bosom heaved with emotion. For some moments 
she stood rapt and listening. Sounds which 
only the soul can hear were coming to her ; 
witch voices, pitched to a key which her heart 
knew. Once more she moved on. Her way 
brought her to an open slope. There a hope- 
ful prospector had cut the strata in search of 
some believed-in ledge. The dirt and stones 
were “dumped” at the end of the tunnel. 


THE COLOR 


57 


As she neared this mound of earth, Gene 
paused, for seated upon it was a girl, her 
hands lying idly in her lap. Her eyes were 
raised to the far-off hills. Her hair, which was 
like burnt umber, fell in a rather graceful 
tumult about her face. She started up as Gene 
approached. Slowly the look of wonder passed, 
and one of understanding took its place. 

“Oh, dear! how you scared me. But I know 
who you are now — you're the new lady in the 
Old Tex cabin, ain't you?" 

“Yes," Gene replied, not just sure of her 
own identification. “I have been there only a 
week or so." 

“Do you like it?" the elf went on, peering 
at Gene curiously. 

“Very much. It is all so beautiful, so 
wonderful!" 

“I am glad to hear you say that, for I 
love it — love it!" The girl pressed her hands 
over her heart and turned toward the summit. 

“Have you been here very long?" 

The girl recalled herself. “I was born here. 
I've never known anything else. Up there the 
fawns are born — well, I'm like that. My father 
was killed by a blast, and I've just growed up 
wild-like, here among the pines." 

“Where is your mother, child?" Gene asked 
the question with that anxiety which a traveled 


58 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


person feels for one who has had small chance 
to interpret the meaning of life. 

“My mother? Dead, too, they say. I never 
saw her. Wish I had, for I've been awful 
lonesome, sometimes. That’s why I love the 
hills. When I get them feelings, I run away 
to the wild places and talk to the deer and the 
grouse, and everything seems to understand ; 
only, they seem to be lonesome too. ,, 

“Where do you live, dear ?” Gene asked 
kindly. 

The piquant eyes were full of discontent. 

“I stay with my father’s old partner, and 
his wife. They do the best they can, I guess, 
but old Sluicy drinks — drinks; and they don’t 
understand that I want to learn things, like 
other girls way out in the big world beyond the 
mountains. I want to know about the great 
cities and the sea. Oh, that is all so wonderful! 
Jim has told me about it. He’s seen it, but I 
hain’t. But I love the dear old hills, and I 
never want to leave them and not come back. 
It just seems they understand all about me, and 
I tell them lots of funny things when I feel 
queer. But I want to know about books and 
music, like you do, and others. You know lots 
about them, don’t you?” 

“Not as much as some, though I have read 
a great deal, child.” 


THE COLOR 


59 


“So has Jim and Borden, but I can’t read 
only a little.” 

“Who is Jim, dear?” 

“Jim? Don’t you know? He lives close by 
you. He’s Borden’s partner.” 

“Is he good?” 

“Oh, so good! If it wasn’t for him, I don’t 
know what I’d do. I suppose folks who go to 
church would call him bad, because he swears 
sometimes, and goes to the saloons; but he’s 
fine to me, and get me things ; ’cause old 
Sluicy drinks, and never has any money. Not 
only that, but he makes the miners quit teasing 
me; and once he thrashed a fellow who tried 
to act smart.” 

“Do the miners tease you?” 

“They used to, but not so much now. When 
I was little they would call me Reddy, and Brick- 
top, and then I’d cry. Sometimes they called 
me Patterfoot, ’cause I didn’t have any shoes. 
But they named me The Color the most, cause 
of my hair. Jim said that was all right, for 
the color in the pan means pay dirt in the mines, 
and he said I was gold, all right. But he calls 
me Chipmunk most, ’cause I us’t to run up and 
down the logs so much.” 

“But what is your real name, the name your 
— father called you?” 

“Oh, my really name is Gertrude. That was 


60 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


my mother’s name, I guess. I never saw her, 
though. She died a long time ago, when I was 
wee little. That was when the camp was new, 
and there was only one mill; now there’s lots 
of them.” 

“Have you ever gone to school?” 

The girl’s eyes sought the ground. “Only a 
few months, and I’m sixteen now. I don’t know 
very much about anything, I guess. I see other 
girls who can talk nice, and they play music, 
and I wish I could be like them. Do you think 
I could learn?” There was an eager light in 
the pleading eyes. 

“Certainly. All you need is a chance. But 
hasn’t there been a schoolteacher here?” 

“Yes, but old Sluicy thought I ought to stay 
at home and work, ’cause they keep boarders 
to make a living. That’s the way it’s been; but 
I feel sorry for Sluicy’s wife, ’cause she has to 
work so hard. I’d like to learn to sing — and I 
could, but I don’t know how. But you can sing, 
can’t you?” 

“A little, child.” 

“And play music — ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful ! How I wish I could 
do that. Once I touched the keys of a piano, 
and it almost frightened me. Does it take a 
long time to learn?” 


THE COLOR 


61 


“Not so long as you think, perhaps. It 
depends on how hard you work at it.” 

“Oh, Td work hard, if I had the chance.” 

Gene looked deep into the candid eyes, 
shadowy with nature’s questionings, and her 
own grew moist. As one sees far objects take 
form and place through a lifting haze, she 
glimpsed in that moment an opportunity. Here 
was a chance to unlock a prisoned soul. Never 
before did service appear so beautiful, or unself- 
ishness an angel of so white a robe. The clean 
hands of mercy beckoned; the brows of truth 
and trust were bound with clasps of sapphire. 
In that moment Gene saw as never before the 
eternal separation between matter and spirit. 
The streams had voices; the pines dropped their 
cones; the aspens sent forth vital roots; but 
always the measure was the same. Their circles 
were small. The grass grew no higher this 
year than last. The thickets died and grew 
again; the hemlocks were only equal to other 
hemlocks. But the soul was not like that. Here 
was a harp with uncounted strings, a music 
with scales of its own. After all, the whisper 
was not in the larches, nor the wistful sorrow 
in the pines; it was in the heart. The crash of 
the storms, the trumpets of the loosened forces 
were the high notes of the breast, sounding for 
loftier marshalings in the Infinite. 


62 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Gene looked down the vistas of the girl’s 
nature, and saw the buds of struggling truth 
and longing burst forth in power, as the 
syringas had done at the asking of the sun. 
What a privilege to send the spirit abroad, free 
and fair. Her thoughts must have trooped to 
her glance, for, when she recalled herself, the 
girl was looking at her with a mystified expres- 
sion. 

“Oh, your eyes are just lovely! You look 
like a spirit, I know,” the girl commented in the 
blunt frankness of youth. “Whatever was you 
thinking about ? It must have been . something 
like love, for you looked so kind. But no one 
ever loved me, I guess, except Jim; he does, I 
suppose. Was it like that, you was thinking 
about — like love?” 

Tears gathered in Gene’s eyes. 

“Yes, dear child, it was love made me look 
that way.” 

“Isn’t it wonderful to love some one? Who 
is it?” 

Gene put her arms around the girl’s 
shoulders, and drew her gently toward her: “It 
is you, dear — you, that I love!” 

A cry of joy greeted the words. Then the 
girl drew back unbelieving and shy. 

“Me? Me? Why do you love me?” 

“Just because I do, dear, and I want your 


THE COLOR 


63 


love in return. You are lonely, and heart- 
hungry. You were made to be loved.” 

The girl nestled in Gene’s arms with a little 
sigh of content. Then she looked up shyly and 
asked : 

“How could you love me? You never saw 
me before.” 

“It all came in a moment, and I’m glad, for 
I never had a sister. How I have wished for 
that companionship all through my life.” 

“Oh, let me be your sister, your own sister! 
Please do!” pleaded the girl. 

Gene raised the sun-browned face and kissed 
the high forehead tenderly. 

“You shall be my sister, child, and that 
seals it.” 

“No one ever kissed me before,” murmured 
the girl, her cheek on Gene’s breast. 

“I will kiss you every day, dear, from now 
on, for you are to be my companion, you know.” 

The girl looked up with a new light in her 
eyes. “Oh, isn’t love wonderful? I never was 
so happy before. You are so beautiful and 
good. And to think you would have any time 
for me. I’m only a waif of the camp. I’ve 
played in the street, and run in and out of the 
saloons when I was little. But I was always 
hungry for something, and now I know it was 
love. I wanted that, and now it has come.” 


64 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Gene held the strong young body close to 
her and looked down into the candid eyes. Into 
them never had come the shadows of impurity. 
In that moment a new estimate for the shaggy 
miners was formed in her mind. 

“I want to talk to you of other things now. 
Let us sit down and plan a bit. I want you to 
know music, and how to write and sing and 
read books. Will you let me teach you? I have 
a piano, and we can arrange that nicely. ,, 

A prolonged exclamation of surprise greeted 
this statement. In it there were agreement and 
unbounded delight. 

“There is a little cabin close to the one I 
live in. We can fix that up and have a little 
school all our own. Won’t that be lovely?” 

“You’re an angel!” the girl cried excitedly. 
“I knew you was good the minute I looked at 
you. Oh, how sweet you are!” 

“It’s nothing, child, nothing,” Gene pro- 
tested. “I shall be glad to help you, and I know 
you will learn rapidly. We will look into cook- 
ing, and learn how to make dresses. But you 
will have to get Jim to make some windows so 
we can have more light. Do you think he will 
do it?” 

“Do it! He’ll do anything I want him to,” 
the girl replied confidently. 

“Then come up to-morrow and we will 


THE COLOR 


65 


arrange it. Now I must go, or Aunt Ruth will 
think the Old Man of the Hills has carried 
me off.” 

Together the two girls, one in tender six- 
teen, the other in steady twenty, went up 
through the aspen groves, where the mariposa 
lilies cupped the aisles of the forest, while pines 
whispered over them, and the chokecherry 
touched them with soft green hands. 


V 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 

HE night wind was still in the pines when 



A Gene Truxton arose the morning after 
meeting The Color. 

There was a delicious suggestion of life in 
the bunch grass. In the glades the piute flower 
and the purple bell made high notes in the 
general green. All growing things were fresh 
washed at the fountains of the night. 

She went out under the reddening east and 
stood with lifted face, taking the crisp air with 
eyes like rare wine full of banked fires. Gene 
wondered what passion, what ravishing wish 
was back of the flooding glory of the sky. It 
was like the face of a woman — a woman that 
is pure. 

She walked to the rim of the ridge and 
looked down into the huddled hollows where the 
glooms still lay. From everywhere came the 
chatter of waters, fluting over pebbles and tiny 
falls. An aspen — a tremble of wonder and 
beauty — stirred, quivered to its utmost twig, 
and filled itself with sighs. With rapt gaze she 


66 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


67 


watched the unfolding miracle about her. Now 
the peaks were capped with gold ; then the 
lesser ridges began to flame, and soon the upper 
forests were a conflagration. The shadows 
leaped out of the canyons and fled. Two deer, 
in soft red dress, tripped from a glade and 
vanished in the laurel thickets. An hour passed. 
The sun had reached the valley and was ideal- 
izing the crude cabins squatted here and there 
among the firs. Gene saw, too, that it was 
falling in equal glory on the saloons, dance-halls 
and unkept street. 

“Am I late?” 

The Color came to Gene's side, her eyes 
alight with expectancy. She wore an old house- 
dress, and her hair was gathered about her head 
in a pretty tumult. 

“No, dear, you are not late. I got up early 
so I could see the sun rise, and the grouse get- 
ting their breakfast in the grass. Many a 
sleepy grasshopper has gone to make a side-dish, 

I assure you. You are ready for business, I see." 

“Yes, I just long to get at it. I’ll do all 
the hard things, and you can be boss and order 
me around. Jim said he'd come up and cut 
out the windows in a little while. Oh, I'm so 
happy — happy!" The girl paused and looked 
at her companion intently for a moment, then 
turned to enter the cabin. 


68 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“I must keep my promise, unless you object,” 
said Gene, drawing the shy creature to her and 
imprinting a kiss on her forehead. 

“I wondered ... I thought you had for- 
gotten. Oh, it’s splendid to be loved !” The girl 
girl nestled like a startled fawn in the arms 
which held her. Suddenly, with a little laugh, 
she disengaged herself. 

“We must get to work. There’s an awful 
clutter in the cabin, and Jim will be here pretty 
soon to sweep out.” The girl hurried away in 
the direction of the hut. 

The rubbish consisted in a great quantity 
of broken picks and wornout shovels, old cans 
which had held powder, and heaps of worthless 
boots. There were battered sledges, also, and 
splintered drills. Mouldy clothes filled the 
corners, and coils of fuse hung from pegs in 
the walls. Gene looked at the confusion in 
dismay. The Color broke into rippling laugh- 
ter, then began to throw whatever her hands 
touched, through the door. 

“Hadn’t you better wait till he — he comes? 
You’ll cut your hands on tho.se rusty edges.” 

“That don’t matter,” the girl chirruped, 
gathering an armload of drills which left their 
rust on her hands and arms. “I’d do anything 
to be like you, and learn what I want to know.” 

“But you must just be yourself, dear, after 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


69 


all. You know the forest trees are different. 
The pine can not be a fir, nor the larch a hem- 
lock. All these have their own forms, and we 
are glad, for we would not want to change the 
beautiful aspen into the cottonwood, nor the 
cherry to the oak.” 

"That’s so,” the girl agreed, a wondering 
light in her eyes. Then she brightened. “I am 
glad you said that. That means that I can be 
somebody, too, don’t it? And, while I know 
the same things, still I’ll be different, won’t I?” 

"That is it, child,” Gene encouraged. 

A half-hour later, a cheery voice accosted 
them from the door, and The Color assured 
her that Jim had come to help them. Gene saw 
a clear-eyed young man before her, his hat on 
the back of his head, and his tumult of hair in 
a brush about his face. "A man to trust,” 
thought Gene, meeting the eyes which searched 
her face. 

"Oh, Jim! this is the woman I told you 
about. Her name’s Truxton. She’s going to 
learn me lots of things, and this is to be our 
schoolhouse. Won’t it be nice? I’m going to 
work hard — hard!” There was something cul- 
tured in the bow with which the young man 
acknowledged the introduction. 

"The Color has been telling me that you 
are going to help her out on some things. This 


70 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


is very kind of you. I have wanted to do it 
myself, but — well, that wouldn’t look just right, 
I suppose. But I know she will get on all 
right.” 

Before Gene could reply, The Color broke 
in : 

“That will do now. We want these cans 
and things dumped into that old shaft down 
there. I’ll throw them out to you.” 

Jim dodged a powder keg, and went down 
the hill with his arms full, to the ripple of the 
girl’s laughter. 

“She’s a perfect little heathen, and a tyrant,” 
Jim protested to Gene on his return. “I have 
to step high and look close when she takes the 
sledge and begins to strike. You understand 
that, don’t you?” 

“I fear not, Mr. — ” 

“Kelly,” supplied Jim. 

“Well, I’ll tell you. You see, the ledge lies 
like butter between two slices of bread, in the 
other rock. This comes to the surface, and 
dips deep into the hill. If we believe it good, 
we go below and drift in so we can tap it at the 
heart of the mountain. By doing this, we learn 
if it is worth bothering with. When we get 
into the hill a bit we strike rock, and we have 
to blast it out with powder. This is done by 
striking a turning drill with a sledge till a hole 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


71 


is made, into which we put the powder, then 
we set it off with a fuse and cap, and that tears 
out a hole. So we go on through the mountain. 
One holds the drill, the other strikes it.” 

“There’s two loads of cans out there wait- 
ing,” the girl interrupted. 

Jim obeyed her suggestion immediately, and 
they heard him singing as he went down the 
hill: 


“The daughters of Erin are famed the world over, 

For wit and for beauty, for charms of their own. 

But there’s one in the land of the shamrock and clover 
Who is first of the first and second to none.” 

“I like the other part of that best — you 
know,” The Color suggested on his return. A 
moment later they heard the glades answering 
to: 

“She can boast not of riches, 

Of rank, nor of station. 

This dear little colleen, she loves me, I know. 

But I’d love her no more 
Were she queen of a nation — 

She’s my Irish lass from the county Mayo.” 

“Is that all of it?” Gene asked, struck by 
the simple ballad. 

“No, there’s a chorus that goes with it. I 
like that.” The Color waited. She was sure 
that she had given ample reason for the rest 
of the song being sung. Jim thought so, too, 
for he began at once: 


72 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“As pure as the dewdrop 

That falls on the heather — 

Our hearts bound together 
By love’s shining tether, 

She’s my Irish lass from the county Mayo.” 

“I like that best,” said Gene, underscoring 
the thought. 

“We are ready for the windows now; and 
while you make them I’ll sweep.” 

The girl seized an old broom and began to 
push out the smaller clutter. 

‘Til do that. You have done most of the 
hard things this morning,” said Gene, trying to 
take the broom. 

“I ought to, for it’s me who is to get the 
benefit.” Gene insisted, but the girl stood firm. 

Meantime, Jim had made an opening and 
was drifting through the logs with a saw. 
While he worked he talked. The free spirit of 
the camp characterized all he did. Gene was 
coming to see that the men of the trail and pass 
were all one in this quality, and — she liked it. 

“It’s mighty kind of you, Miss Truxton, to 
help The Color out this way. She’s always 
wanted to know music and books. But old 
Sluicy is a wreck from alcohol, so he couldn’t 
give her a chance. He was a man once, but 
drink got him, and it’s got him now. What 
makes me want to fight is the fact that the girl 
here, and his wife, have to suffer with him. The 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


73 


old woman has been keeping boarders, and that 
meant no chance for school. I have done what 
I could to make it lighter for her, but that's the 
case. 'Tain't because she ain't smart, and all 
that. I wanted her to know these things, be- 
cause — you see — I — am interested. But there 
are only a few pianos in camp, outside a 
saloon, and the women who own them are the 
stuck-up folks who wouldn't want the girl 
hammering on them." 

“It will be a great pleasure to help her in 
these matters, Mr. Kelly, and I am sure we will 
get on nicely; won't we, girlie?" 

“Of course we will! I just love you now, 
and I've only knowed you a little. What will 
it be when I've knowed you a lot?" The girl 
drew her hand across her forehead, leaving 
streaks of dust. 

“Wonder if you'd think it queer if Borden 
and me would ask you folks all down to our 
cabin some time? I told him the old-timers 
were to call on the newcomers, and that would 
mean that you would have to come down. You 
see, Miss Truxton, I was well enough raised, 
but it's easy to forget in a place like this." 

“What did he say to that?" Gene asked, her 
cheeks taking a pale carnation. 

“Who, Borden? Oh, he thought it was all 
right; but he told me I'd have to come along 


74 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


with the cooking — see? But that don’t need to 
bother anybody, for I know how to do that 
myself.” There was conscious pride in the 
statement. 

Gene thought: “Could I eat a man’s cook- 
ing?” Then aloud: “We shall be pleased to 
have you and Mr. Borden call. My father is 
an old miner, and doubtless you will enjoy 
trading experiences.” 

“We’re coming, all right, and that means 
that you must visit us. There! That log is 
out. At first Borden laughed, then he didn’t 
object. Borden’s a variety all his own. He 
ain’t like other men. I believe he’d get a 
gulch ful of fun out of fighting a grizzly with 
a club. Sometimes he cleans out the saloons 
just to see the chaps go with the breeze. I 
never saw such strength and energy. Usually 
his eyes are like the light you see on the hills, 
but when he is in another mood they look like 
banked fires. I honestly think he’s the best- 
looking fellow in the world. And, after being 
his partner for four years, I think he’s the best 
man I ever knew. Honest as gold, and not a 
small thing in him! But he seems to be unable 
to live without excitement. He drinks some, 
that’s true, but not like the rest; and he swears. 
You’d think he’d want his own way in every- 
thing, but he don’t. There’s a woman streak in 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


75 


him that gives in, unless you try to drive him; 
then look out! But there's something else that 
is like a storm. It make him glorious, but a 
bad enemy. Fve seen him feeding a pet chip- 
munk out of his hand and calling him all man- 
ner of pet names; and I've seen him throwing 
crumbs on the snow for the birds in winter, till 
they'd come down out of the pines every time 
he went out. That's one side. Then I've 
watched him laughing at a pistol barrel held an 
inch from his face. When he'd had enough, the 
fellow found himself in a corner and his gun 
gone. That's Borden. Now I'll put in the 
window." 

“No, no, leave it out; we want the air to 
come in, and the nard of the trees," Gene 
objected, glad for a chance to turn from the 
interesting train of conversation, though she 
had weighed every word of the description. 
“The butterflies, and the sound in the pines, and 
the chatter of the white waters down there, will 
all be good to see and hear." 

The tasks were done at last. Jim had gone 
whistling down the trail, leaving the two women 
to survey the purged cabin with great satis- 
faction. At that moment a chipmunk darted 
through the door and up the logs to the window 
ledge, where it sat up to eat something in its 
tiny claws. Gene stared at it in astonishment, 


76 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


for it had a small, blue ribbon around its neck. 

“Oh, that’s Borden’s pet. It’s gentle as can 
be. Jim says it will eat out of one’s hand. Let 
me see if I can catch it.” 

Sure enough, the little creature manifested 
no fear as the girl approached, permitting her 
to stroke its striped body. Spying a member 
of its kind, it gave shrill chase out of the win- 
dow and up a dead pine. The girl watched it a 
moment thoughtfully. 

“Strange that a man who likes to fight and 
swear, like Borden, would take up with a chip- 
munk, ain’t it? He’s not like others, though. 
Jim told the truth. Sometimes he’s like a poet 
— you know — like a poet. Spends days at a 
time in the wild places, and he won’t do any 
mean things, only throw men out of places when 
they ought to be. But I wonder why he likes 
that chipmunk.” 

“It is queer,” Gene agreed, turning away. 

Together they went down the slope, where 
the mountain lilies and red-topped mint grew 
thick &nd sweet. Under the trembling leaves 
they passed. Below them the valley stretched 
to a point where the nose of an intruding ridge 
shut it out. Gene glanced at the girl; saw the 
burnt umber of her hair and the splash of 
freckles over her piquant nose; saw the haunt- 
ing hunger about her questioning eyes, and a 


THE OLD POWDER CABIN 


77 


great pity came to her for this neglected child 
of the camp, who, like a rare white flower, had 
come clean through the grime and the grit of it 
all. She wondered what her own life would 
have been had she come the same path. As if 
moved by a mental suggestion, the girl lifted 
her eyes: 

“You was thinking of me, wasn’t you?” 

“Yes; how did you know?” 

“Oh, I felt it. Something down in my 
heart made me know it. You love me, too, 
don’t you?” 

“Yes, child.” 

“And I love you so much.” 

“I am glad for that. We will be great 
friends, won’t we?” 

“Yes, for I need you. awfully. You are so 
good and wise. Your face is like one in a book 
Jim gave me. You are awful pretty.” She 
paused and scanned the features bent on hers. 
“Oh, I can see miles and miles into your eyes!” 

“Dear child, I want to be good, and I try 
to be,” Gene replied, confused by the frankness 
of her companion. “But you must look above 
me for a perfect pattern. I do that. And only 
as I try to be like God am I what I should be.” 

“God is love, isn’t he?” The Color asked 
eagerly. 

“Yes, and that is why I love you — that is, I 


78 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


can love you better because of it. But you are 
a sweet girl, and worthy of affection, dear. ,, 

With the hunger of everything motherless, 
the girl nestled close to her companion, and kept 
her arms about her. Gene touched the brown 
face with her lips, then they went on through 
the shadows, past the places where the light 
dripped in pools, to the parting of the ways. 


VI 


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 

T HE June days went by like tinted dreams. 

Gene was becoming more and more de- 
lighted with her surroundings. The charm of 
the hills, the rush of white waters, the thousand 
melodies of wood and glade, all woke within her 
a deathless love for the enchanted land. 

, She had fixed the order of her time, break- 
ing the day into easy divisions. First, there 
was a two-hour stretch devoted to The Color, 
up in the old powder cabin. Then came an 
hour at the piano. With a will, the girl entered 
into the solving of mysteries on key and black- 
board, and Gene saw with pride the keen facul- 
ties awake and shape the new things into the 
logic of understanding. Genders, verbs, ante- 
cedents, case, all puzzled through her jumbled 
wits till they reached at last their proper 
relations. 

With Spartan resolution she stood at grips 
with all the signs and dark ways of music, 
counting the monotonous monotone of time with 
fingers that ached and throat the same. Some- 

79 


80 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


times she was angry at reasonless things which 
she tried to make her brain take at their own 
terms. Again she wept. But always with a 
determination to master her difficulties, no 
matter how great they seemed, which drove 
her on. 

Music was her heaven. Once her hands 
began to move over the keys, her whole being 
seemed to undergo a change. Her eyes gloomed 
and her glance was like twilight. Almost with- 
out effort, she floated along the vistas of har- 
mony where the soul is the teacher. This was 
the order for three days in the week. Then 
came tramps over the ridges and through the 
scented glades, where the mint grew thick and 
the tracks of deer were to be seen. 

On the Sabbath the two girls sat together 
in church, near the window, through which they 
could see the peaks, with their clinging patches 
of snow. All the missionary’s labored ex- 
pounding they missed by departing on swift 
thought and wish journeys to the folded up- 
lands. 

Fresh strikes in the hills surrounding the 
camp had brought in a flood of feverish gold- 
hunters, who sat well in at the game of chance. 
The dance-halls seethed with a sin-seared 
throng, and the bars crashed with glasses. 
“Whisky straight” went dowri the line of 


WHAT HAPPENED 


81 


booted bacchanals. Here and there groups dis- 
cussed the latest strike, or — killing. The Bald 
Eagle eddied a double portion of the drift, and 
the challenge of its halls was loud to hear. 
Games went full blast, and tables were stacked 
with gold dust and silver. Back and forth the 
streams squeezed through the narrow ways 
between the dance-hall and the barroom. Out 
of the stew came the whine of a violin and the 
nasalings of ballet girls, deep in rouge. Some 
whirled in the arms of men flaming with liquor. 
Blasphemy filled the tobacco-blue air. At the 
front a dispute was fast coming to blows. Claps 
of thundering laughter underscored coarse jokes 
or comic songs. Men, deep in their cups, sought 
trouble, or gabbled while they gulped from slop- 
ping mugs. Others sprawled in fleshly heaps, or 
plunged about aimlessly, with wide spread of 
legs and arms. 

From a small platform at one side a deep 
voice began to bawl: 

“We’re three dashing rovers 
From bonnie Scotland — ” 

And then: 

“The hope of your love, 

Sweet Annie Bardeen, 

Is a thing that never can be.” 

The song closed with a spasm of applause 
from a congested rim about the singer. Some 


82 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


one hustled the would-be charmer off to take a 
drink. Already overindulged, the singer re- 
turned to his perch, and launched confidently 
into his favorite doggerel: 

“Landlord, fill the flowing bowl, 

Fill it flowing over; 

For to-day we’ll get staving drunk, 

And to-morrow we’ll get sober.” 

With the closing measures the circle stam- 
peded. A quarrel, just budding into drunken 
bloodshed, was stopped by lookers-on. All 
wished to learn the cause of the trouble and 
have a look at the angry men. And through it 
all moved women jesting, laughing — without 
mirth — soliciting drinks, or partners for the 
dance-hall; and trailing at their bells the dan- 
gling souls of men, drawn on by a smirched, 
though fatal, beauty. Queens of abandon were 
they; daughters of Jezebel and sin; sirens of 
forbidden isles; eaters of prohibited fruit; wild 
charmers to those without masts to which they 
might be lashed. 

With a crash the swinging shutters at the 
front were thrown wide, and two men entered. 
Instantly the fact communicated itself to all in 
the saloon, and men turned to yield homage to 
the first to enter. Ten voices chimed at once: 
“Hello, Borden!” and, “Where you been?” 

“Minding my business as a gentleman 


WHAT HAPPENED 


83 


should,” Borden replied, slapping a questioner 
good-naturedly on the shoulder. “What’s going 
on ? Any excitement ?” 

“Nothing has come to a head. Boys have 
stopped two that promised well enough. One 
was on the way to guns as a side order. Hello, 
Jim! Bill MacKay’s got the platform, but he’s 
almost too drunk to sing, and you must get in.” 

Another voice, cornerless from indulgence: 
“Hurrah for Zhim Ke-lly! He’s the best singer 
in camp. Why don’t you all say hurrah? Get 
down from there, Bill, you murderer of music, 
and let a white man have your job. Hurrah !” A 
large miner, clad in blue flannel, and girt at the 
hips with a leather belt, toppled the drooping 
Bill from his seat unceremoniously. 

“Ireland forever K’ went up as Kelly took 
the platform. At the bar a wilted shape sobbed 
over old memories of lost things. To-morrow 
that wilted length would be stiff with pain and 
hate. A manner of good-natured abandon made 
Kelly a favorite. The crowd surged that way. 
From the tables came the thud of excited hands 
depositing cards high enough to risk a venture 
on. Under these came the flutter of roulette 
balls and the click of chips. Money needed in 
far-away homes was in the heaps; money that 
cost long hours of painful drudgery in the cut 
and the drift. To-morrow the haggard fool 


84 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


would curse himself and mouth the old vow. 
Clean-shaven men, white of face and dark of 
eye, sat unmoved through the strain. They 
were knights of the green cloth, and these their 
prey. 

“Hold on there! Drinks for everybody!” 
thundered Borden, surging to the bar. There 
was a general rush in that direction. Bar-flies 
shambled from deep chairs and corners and 
became sociable. A young woman mounted the 
foot-rail and proposed a toast, her glass high. 

“Here’s to courage, honesty and — and — a 
clean man — Borden!” 

“Borden, Borden it is!” thundered the gulp- 
ing line. Up and down went the flashing 
glasses, with a linger-crash on the bar. 

A dark-faced man sneered and turned away; 
cursed softly and returned. 

“Here’s to the fairest face and the warmest 
heart in the hills — Minnie Moore!” 

“Hurrah for Minnie Moore!” thundered the 
voices. 

The man who proposed the toast looked 
keenly at Borden, and the glance was not good. 
Borden saw it, and connoted accordingly. To 
both, the glances were a challenge. The girl 
grew radiant, and her eyes flashed blackly 
bright. Those near Borden saw that he toasted 
the Luck Queen in water only. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


85 


“Do you mean that as a suggestion of 
reform?” she questioned, leaning down and 
speaking in an undertone, so none but Borden 
could hear the words. 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to change, girl,” he 
replied carelessly. “Anyway, I’ve never made 
you worse.” 

Some mirthless laughter greeted this — then 
curiously : 

“I’ve never understood you, Borden.” 

“I’m no saint, understand. But one has to 
draw the line somewhere. I make up for it in 
red-hell and scarlet meanness on other lines, all 
right.” 

The girl searched his face with a wistful 
look, but did not reply. 

“By the way, who is the savage who 
refused to drink to me, and proposed your 
toast? He has been glaring at me for five 
minutes now.” 

“Oh, that’s Pierre, the Frenchman. I met 
him in the camps to the south. I hate him ! He 
followed me here. I thought I had given him 
the slip, but he came into camp a few nights 
ago. He proposed that we go somewhere and 
start a big dance-hall — to marry him — to live 
just for him. Pie’s a trouble-maker, and has 
the blood of a dozen men on his hands. Watch 
him, Borden, that’s all.” 


86 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“I'll do that, girl. Meantime, let’s hear the 
music.” 

The two drifted from the bar to where Jim 
was tuning his banjo. At last to his notion, his 
rich Irish voice rolled away on: 

“I’m thinking of Erin to-night, 

Of a little white cot by the sea, 

Where Jennie my darling, my own, 

Is watching and waiting for me.” 

A cloud of shovel-hardened hands clapped 
applause when the song was done. 

“Give us the other one and we’ll help ye, 
boy,” requested an old prospector. “Alius did 
like that one myself. Now, that’s it — away we 
go!” 

“And they say they are looking 
For the lost Charley Ross. 

He’s gone! He’s gone! 

There’s nobody knows where.” 

A hundred voices, chesty and full, swelled 
the tune like a flood in a canyon, falling in 
whenever the singer reached the chorus: 

“And they say they are looking 
For the lost Charley Ross — ” 

“Ask him to sing the one about the picture,” 
Minnie whispered to Borden. 

He stooped to get her words, and found the 
eyes of the Frenchman fastened upon him when 
he straightened up. Borden laughed a chal- 
lenge, and turned to Jim: 


WHAT HAPPENED 


87 


“Minnie wants the picture song, Jim, so dig 
into it about right.” 

With a nod to the girl and a push which 
located his hat still farther at the back of his 
head, Jim took up the words: 

“In life’s rugged gallery of pictures 

Hang the scenes that are painted from life. 

All hang on the wall, 

But the saddest of all 
Are the pictures from life’s other side.” 

Borden felt the girl tremble. He glanced 

her and saw that her eyes were bright with 
tears. A feeling of pity stirred him, and his 
fingers closed over the hand of the Queen. He 
felt she needed help just then, and the assurance 
of sympathy. 

“Come on,” she said abruptly. “I don’t 
think I want to hear the rest of that song.” 
She led him to a small room opening on the 
games and the bar at the front. “We can 
talk here, Borden. Somehow I feel nervous 
to-night — upset.” She sank wearily into a chair. 
Borden drew another to the table. The Queen 
dropped her chin in her hands, and looked 
vacantly out on the surging mass in the bar- 
room. 

“I feel queer for some reason,” she began, 
almost to herself. “I can’t get into the stew 
to-night, and I want the bunch to let me alone. 


88 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


I want Pierre to let me alone. I wish he had 
not come. He urges his love on me. Bah! As 
if such a brute knew the meaning of the word!” 

“Where did you first meet this man?” 

“It was down in Sonora, under the Sierras. 
I grew afraid of him and came north, but you 
see he has followed me.” 

“Did he ever mistreat you?” 

The eyes of the Queen flashed. 

“He tried that, but I stopped it quick ! Then 
he threatened my life. Oh, well, what of it? 
I’m sick of life. It’s all a gamble anyway.” 
She turned to Borden with a hollow laugh. 
“It’s all just a matter of luck,” she went 
on wearily. “That’s the way it seems to me. 
I’m Queen of the Luck, you know. I’ve had 
gamblers dance with me before going into a 
big game; I’ve had them touch me with their 
money, believing it would bring them success. 
Then I’ve had them shoot each other over me, 
afterwards.” 

“Can’t say I take much stock in that, Min- 
nie.” Borden shook his head. “It’s unreason- 
able. My luck’s at my belt or piled on my 
shoulders. Yes, I can shoot if I have to. These 
fellows don’t know that; Pierre don’t know 
it.” The reference to the Frenchman was 
prompted by a glimpse of the villain’s face 
peering in at the door as he passed. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


89 


“That’s bad business. Don’t do it, Borden, 
unless you have to — unless he makes you. He’s 
a sure one with pistols.” 

“Do you think he will force trouble on me?” 

“He may; he has that name. Usually he 
has a gang backing him. That’s his game. 
Starts a row, and during the fight does his 
work and no one can prove it on him.” 

“I’ll see him, don’t forget that,” Borden 
replied, his words clear as smitten steel. 

“It’s serious business; it’s all serious and 
bad.” She spoke reminiscently, and a look 
almost of childish innocence came to her face. 

“Why don’t you get out? Somehow, it 
always did seem queer to me that right here 
where men wallow and fight you can find 
women, mixing and taking part in it all.” 

“Not much of a get-on-a-table-from-a-mouse 
about it, is there?” 

“No; but answer my question: Why don’t 
you leave?” 

“You surprise me, Borden. That’s easy to 
ask, but not so easy to answer. It’s like falling 
into a shaft — impossible, almost, to come back. 
Do you see?” 

“No. I hold that there is no reason for 
staying here. Get into an old cabin, a tent, 
anything but this.” 

“And live a hermit, spurned and despised 


90 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


by all! Here the boys do say little kind things 
when they drink to me. Even what Pierre said 
sounded good. But out in the world — the prim 
old, decent world — it’s ice and boycott. Every 
glance is a dagger-thrust, and every word is a 
pistol-shot. This is about the only place for 
me. 

“You may have it sized up wrong, Minnie. 
Anyway, it's worth something to be clean.” 

The words struck her like hail in the face. 
This man whom she admired for his courage 
and kindness of heart looked upon her as un- 
clean. Never before did her life seem so black 
to her. A half-anger burned in her as she 
replied : 

“Clean! I was clean long after they said I 
was not.” The girl’s eyes flashed. 

“Tell me about it, Minnie. I’m in the mood 
to-night. Let’s talk it out.” 

The girl remained silent for some time. 

“There’s not much to tell. These stories all 
read alike. I was young; thrust out to make 
my way. When flattery and the offer of money 
failed, they tried to frighten me by telling me 
that I could not get on with those who hired 
me ; that I was running contrary to custom, and 
things like that. Then came one I thought 
noble and good. Bah! He was the chief devil 
of them all. Words of love, a glass of some- 


WHAT HAPPENED 


91 


thing to drink, followed by darkness and ruin. 
It was drugged. In this way he smirched the 
snow of my young soul. Over the crystals of 
my virtue he sprinkled my own moral blood 
in hellish baptism. Look at me now! I am 
something flung from the rock. I drift with 
the currents of the Seven Seas. For months 
I followed him, a terrible something eating in 
my heart — followed him till I knew he was 
dead and it was no use. I would have killed 
him with my own hand.” 

He looked at her keenly. 

“It was an accident — a cave-in — I am glad 
now, for I feel differently.” 

“Jim is always talking about good raising, 
and he thinks he has had considerable of it. 
He would say that you had been well brought 
up, and you would be pretty, Minnie, if the light 
was behind your face.” 

The girl brightened. “My mother was an 
angel! Sometimes her voice comes to me, and 
I hear her speaking in the old, loving way. Last 
night I dreamed of putting my head in her lap, 
and that she ran her hands softly over my face 
and stroked my hair. Oh! what she said was 
sweet — sweet as the wind in the aspens. But 
they don’t know that, those prim folks in the 
big, iron-hearted world.” 

“I think there may be exceptions,” Borden 


92 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


replied. He was thinking of Gene Truxton. 

“I don’t. I sat under a pine near the way 
by which they left church last Sunday and 
watched the fine feathers go by. Only one spoke 
to me — she looked like an angel — the rest stared 
and passed on. If I lay dying here in this place, 
not one of them would come to me.” 

“What did she say to you?” 

“The one who spoke to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I lost the words thinking of the sweetness 
of her voice and looking at her. Her face made 
me think of — God. I saw in her what I was 
once, or could have been.” 

“And could be again, Minnie — hear me?” 

The girl’s head sank wearily on her folded 
arms. Borden leaned forward and gazed 
vacantly out on the surging mass of drink-in- 
flamed men in the barroom. Jim’s voice came 
to him, rollicking over a pleasing measure: 

“My hands are horny, hard and black, 

From working in the vein, 

And, like the clothes upon my back, 

My speech is rough and plain.” 

At every recurrence of the chorus a storm 
of male voices crashed in: 

“Down in the gold mine, underneath the 
ground.” 

For some time Borden sat watching the 


WHAT HAPPENED 


93 


movements outside. Somehow, it all seemed 
different to him to-night. The curtain was up 
at last, a little way. For the first time in 
all his free young life he felt something of dis- 
gust for what he saw. Till now it had been an 
avenue for excitement, but in a moment it had 
taken to it moral quality, and he was looking at 
it through eyes not all blind. 

From it he turned to the bowed girl. He 
saw that her brown hair fell in pleasing abandon 
about her temples and neck. He looked at her 
hands. How pathetic they seemed in their 
white emptiness. Suddenly he was conscious of 
anger. If only he could have before him those 
who had wronged her, he would crush them one 
by one. Unconsciously his hands clenched, and 
he breathed fast. Some one passed the door. 
Borden looked up and almost rose to his feet: 
the glittering eyes of the Frenchman were fas- 
tened upon him. Here was one of her tor- 
mentors within reach. He would do for him 
now. The Frenchman caught the movement 
and went out swiftly. 

From the dance-hall came the scraping of 
a violin and the crash of a piano, accentuating 
the swish of feet. The mood passed, and some- 
thing else in the nature of Borden stirred. He 
stretched his arms with a short laugh. Inwardly 
he thought: “This won’t do. It’s chesty men 


94 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


for me, the song and the fight. These are 
elemental — good.” 

The girl raised her head with a little sigh. 

‘Tm blue to-night, Borden — forget it. You 
must pay no attention to me. Women are all 
silly, you know, at times. It’s too late now to 
be thinking of what might have been. Once 
down, you can’t get up, so it’s just stay here for 
me. But I do get tired of it all. I long to be 
like the white waters; but there is no use. I 
have too many scars on my soul. You don’t 
understand me, Borden, do you? Look! It’s 
always that — crashing glasses, cursing and 
swinish drunkenness, with the beastly after- 
fruits. It’s a chain, link in link. I know the 
stages. First, it’s the jolly line-up and the first 
drinks of the night. Then comes the song 
period. After that the fighting moods, and 
then — Ah, Borden, do you get me? I’m 
tired. I’ve seen drunken men till I can’t think 
of them separate from the slop of barrooms.” 
The girl yawned languidly. 

“Judging from what is going on out there, 
they have about reached the fighting period,” 
Borden commented, nodding toward the door. 
The girl followed his glance. 

High words and the sound of blows came 
to them. The tinkle of the banjo ceased, and 
the crowd surged about the combatants, the 


WHAT HAPPENED 


95 


friends of the fighters taking sides according to 
their whims. 

“Guess Fll have to see that,” said Borden, 
rising. 

Together they crossed the room toward the 
front, jostling their way through the excited 
crowd. Borden saw the Frenchman watching 
them as they passed. Half-way to the bar they 
were prevented from going farther by the jam. 
From where he stood, Borden watched the 
fray, and was not long in detecting design in 
the affair. A ruffian pressed in close and spoke 
foully to the Queen. The next instant he was 
lying wilted and bewildered on the floor. Bor- 
den stood over the fallen insulter, his eyes full 
of battle-light, his lips drawn in the old danger- 
ous smile. 

Swift and catlike, Pierre slipped through 
the crowd, his hand at his hip. 

“Sacre! The boy strikes a hard blow. Can 
he represent himself as well in the way of 
gentlemen ?” 

“Don’t use that word, you snake !” said 
Borden, facing the Frenchman. 

The fight was over, and the crowd surged to 
where Borden and Pierre stood facing each 
other. A dozen roughs ranged themselves close 
to their chief, sullen and ready. 

“Take that back — one minute you have.” 


96 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Oh, I guess not, Frenchie, not to-night.” 

The quick jerk of the Frenchman’s arm, 
which lifted a revolver from its holster, was 
not so quick as the blow which dropped him 
headlong. At the same instant several men 
surged toward him, and Borden sensed the 
yielding flesh under his blows. The factions 
clashed on the instant, and struggling pairs 
doubled about the room. A blow at the side 
of the head staggered Borden, but in three 
heart-beats he was back at perfect poise. In 
and out of the milling pairs the crowd heaved 
and breasted, shouting directions, and inter- 
fering when some overmatched belligerent went 
down. 

In the midst of his henchmen Pierre 
crouched. Borden had a dim recollection of the 
bartender lunging among them, calling for 
order. A volley of drunken curses greeted him, 
and several men drew deadly weapons. Then 
came the crash of a pistol-shot, followed by 
others, and Borden felt a singe of hot air at his 
cheek — “a close call,” thought he. Suddenly the 
lights went out, and from the darkness came a 
low moan of pain. Gradually the din died 
away. He turned where the Queen had been, 
but she was gone. 

“Stand back there!” he shouted. “Some- 
body’s hurt. Bring a light.” The crowd fell 


WHAT HAPPENED 


97 


into a circle around the voice. The next instant 
the lights came on. 

“Minnie Moore's hurt — done for !" went 
through the crowd. 

Borden dropped on his knees beside the 
gasping girl. She lay pale and still, her eyes 
full of a strange wonder. She looked up and 
smiled faintly as Borden bent over her. 

“The luck has failed," she whispered with a 
sigh, pressing her hand to her side, where a 
dark spot showed ominously. 

Borden lifted her in his arms and carried 
her into the little room where they had talked, 
and placed her on the table. Folding his coat, 
he put it under his head. In a few moments 
the crowd filtered back to the dance-hall and the 
barroom, leaving Borden and a few others to 
care for the wounded girl. 

“Oh, I don't want to die here!" she moaned. 
“It was bad enough to live in such a place. I 
want to die in a clean place! But who would 
take the Luck Queen in? Who would give her 
even a place to die?" 

Borden dispatched a messenger for the only 
doctor in the camp. In ten minutes he returned 
with the information that the physician was 
helplessly drowned in his cups. Meantime, he 
sought to cheer the pleading girl. 

“It's all right, Minnie. You are not seri- 


98 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


ously hurt, and you will be well in a little time, 
ril find a clean place — leave that to me.” 

Inwardly Borden was thinking: 

“Would she do it? She believes in religion 
— would she do it?” Then through shut teeth: 
‘Til put her to the test and see!” 

Turning to Jim, Borden instructed ' him to 
keep the Queen supplied with water, and that 
no one was to bother her in any way. 

“If that Frenchman shows up, square ac- 
counts with him in a hurry,” he threw over his 
shoulder as he strode out of the saloon. 

“Fll do it, pard,” said Kelly, with a good- 
natured smile, at the same time drawing his 
holster from the hip to the front. 

As Borden passed through the barroom, he 
saw that Pierre and his followers were gone. 
Without answering the many questions sent 
after him, he swung into the street and turned 
toward the cabin of Superintendent Truxton. 
Men, restless as mountain streams, surged along 
the clattering sidewalks, their chesty voices 
echoing up the sides of the canyon. The wail- 
ing of violins seeped through the swinging shut- 
ters of the saloons, and stole like vagrant per- 
fume along the town. In and out the feverish 
mill swirled. Groups stood in the spots lighted 
by inside lamps and discussed the things which 
interest a man of fortune. Somewhere a 


WHAT HAPPENED 


99 


woman’s voice rose shrill on the last notes of a 
song. As it died away among the pines there 
was the usual crash of hard palms in brief 
applause. 

“Poor fool!” thought Borden. “This is no 
place for a woman. Whatever brought these 
girls into this stew? God! it’s sure not what 
it might be.” 

At the end of the rambling sidewalk a small 
stream rushed under a bridge, in haste to be 
united in crystal marriage with the larger one 
which splashed among its white boulders behind 
the houses. Beyond the bridge the cabins were 
more scattering, and the pines came down to 
the street. Out of the life-filled dusk came the 
smell of laurel and cedar. The tall hemlocks 
stood thick enough over the skirting slopes to 
keep the air full of murmurs. The sound in 
their tops was strangely weird to Borden, as he 
passed along. 

At a turn in the trail he glimpsed the light 
in the Truxton cabin, and a moment later he 
was before the door. A step caused him to 
turn, and Gene stood before him. She had been 
walking under the trees, and was just returning 
as Borden came up. 

“I was looking for you,” he began abruptly. 
“There’s a girl bad hurt down in one of the 
saloons, and she don’t want to die there — 


100 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


though she may. I think there’s a good chance 
for it to be fatal — the shot — she’s wounded. 
Anyway, she’s down there on a gambling-table, 
pleading to be taken to a clean place where she 
may die.” 

Even under the dim light of the stars he 
saw her turn pale as she comprehended his 
words. 

“You understand what I mean?” 

“I understand!” 

“Well, how is it?” 

“It would be awful for her to die in such a 
place as that,” Gene evaded, trying to collect 
her wits. 

“Well—!” 

For a moment she looked at him, her eyes 
wide with fear. She was resolving on some- 
thing he did not understand, and very naturally 
misunderstood her hesitation. 

“Remember, everybody else feels about as 
you do. I would take her to my cabin and care 
for her, but I suppose that would not be just 
the thing, exactly.” 

“No, no, she can’t go there. But suppose 
she should die among those awful men! She 
may be dying now; think of it!” 

“There’s danger of it,” he added quickly, his 
voice betraying a trace of impatience. 

For a moment Gene looked at him in silence. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


101 


He saw that she was resolving something, and 
did not break in. 

“She shall come here with me. I will go to 
her now, if — if you will show me where she is.” 

Before he could reply, Gene entered the 
cabin, and in a few words explained to Aurtt 
Ruth that she was needed at the side of a young 
woman who was probably dying. That mild 
matron eased herself of the ordinary cautions 
as to taking cold and being careful. 

Gene lost no time. Casting something filmy 
over her head and slipping something that 
glittered into her bosom, she stepped out under 
the stars where Borden stood waiting for her. 
He had not dreamed of her offering to go to 
the saloon. In fact, he was doubtful whether 
she would give the Luck Queen a place to die. 
Now he saw his mistake. At first he had looked 
at her as a mere woman, like all her kind, as he 
knew them. As to her religion, it was an out- 
growth of her nature and her teaching. Men 
were not creatures of sentiment — or they should 
not be — therefore these things belonged to 
women. Women were made to be petted, 
teased, patronized, on occasion. But in a mo- 
ment his well-poised theory dissolved like mist. 
He looked at the patrician girl beside him and 
saw that she was filled with a great strength. 
All fear had gone from her face, and she stood 


102 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


calm and ready. In that instant he understood 
how martyrs met the flames with songs or 
prayer. Gene Truxton was not like other 
women! From seeing her as a modest flower, 
made to be sheltered and cared for, she had 
suddenly become a star. In his eyes she was 
some astral being, brave and beautiful. Some- 
thing soft and odorous as altar incense smote 
his nostrils. It was as the swinging of censers. 
Borden was dimly aware that that which 
touched him was a soul emanation, an expres- 
sion of spirit glow reaching to his own inner 
life. High in the heaven of his conceptions he 
hung this chaste orb. He saw her transcend- 
ency above him. She did not belong to his 
class, yet she moved beside him as though a 
creature of his own sphere. A feeling half 
anger, half wonder possessed him. Some men 
are echoes; some are original, elemental. Bor- 
den was the last two. Something prompted him 
to surrender himself to something else. Instant- 
ly he was in rebellion. He was himself and 
great in his parts. It was in him to make a 
great sacrifice, or give himself in magnificent 
abnegations. With this was a capacity for wild 
revolt. 

With the chaos of his conclusions regarding 
women in the dust, there came an almost unde- 
fined wish, not so much to be like the girl beside 


WHAT HAPPENED 


103 


him, as to remove that which separated them. 
Such were the thoughts which whirled through 
his mind as they glided down the path through 
the aspens and the bunch grass filled with the 
zirr of insects. 

“Are you afraid?” he questioned as they 
reached the street 

“Yes, I — I — think I am. It's all new to 
me, and it’s — awful!” 

“I guess that's about the facts,” he agreed. 
“But remember you are with me, and men 
know what that means in Deadman.” He looked 
at her pure face and the starlight on her 
hair, and was proud of her. Strength he loved, 
courage he worshiped. And she had that, thank 
Heaven! if she was a woman. The glorious 
power to sufifer and be still was hers. The 
quality that would send her to the deepest 
depths to save the object of her love; the stead- 
fast resolution to brave any opposition to be 
right, crowned her like a divine halo. 

“You need not fear, Miss Truxton; I'll pro- 
tect you if it should be necessary.” Borden 
strode on in silence, his thoughts a tangle which 
he could not bring into order till he heard the 
piping voice of a young miner hailing him from 
the streetside: 

“I say, Borden. Where did you catch that?” 

The next instant the youth, too much in his 


104 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


grog for his better sense, stood up stiff and 
staring before the blazing eyes of Borden, who 
hissed a few thin words between his tight-shut 
teeth. 

“Don’t make that mistake again, Charlie — 
get me?” 

“I see, Bord, I see. Yes, yes, I understand. 
No harm meant. Just a mistake, you under- 
stand, just a mistake. So long, pard, so long.” 
The sobered young fellow thought it the better 
part of valor to get into new territory, and 
decamped. 

Instinctively Gene drew closer to Borden as 
they entered the Bald Eagle. He looked down 
at her and smiled assurance. She was very 
pale, but unshaken. A throng of milling men 
swirled right and left to let them pass. For a 
moment Gene paused at the door, a wild fear 
thrilling to her heart. The scene which met her 
gaze was fearsome, bewildering. She was in 
the midst of desperate wickedness; it pulsed in 
the air, and clutched her like a madness. Till 
now, she had known of this side of life only 
from chance statements and surmises. Now her 
own feet stood in the center of the Black Way. 
vShe was looking upon sin in all its scarlet. Into 
her ears ribaldry and ingenious devilment were 
hurling their throaty challenge. The stench in 
the air smothered her. Cosmic flesh was voic- 


WHAT HAPPENED 


105 


ing its ancient hell-cry. For an instant she 
hesitated and drew back. Then she set her 
glance ahead and went on. 

“Don't back out now. I'm here to see that 
you are treated all right, remember." 

She ganced at him and saw that she could 
trust him. 

“Go on," she commanded, and the next 
moment they were in the midst of the boiling 
crowd, which closed around them like a wave. 

The sight which greeted Gene was gruesome, 
dragonish. Men in all stages of intoxication 
reeled about, babbling and silly. Others were 
there for different reasons. These stood or 
moved about, clear-eyed and silent. Some 
slopped at the bar; others lay in beastly sleep 
in corners. There was an endless crash of 
glasses and the constant clatter of roulette balls. 
The fetid atmosphere of the place was stitched 
with the lost wanderings of a distant violin. 
Somewhere a woman was singing in a shrill, 
soulless voice. 

Gene was bewildered with fear and the new- 
ness of it all. The blasphemy horrified her ; and 
the drunkenness was unbearable. She .felt that 
she was not only near to the gates of sin, but 
that she had entered in and was being thronged 
with the denizens of darkness. 

For a moment she regretted coming. Then 


106 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


she recalled the fact that other women were 
there. But what of this? Their presence would 
only take from her that natural protection 
which she might claim even from a savage. 
These were the pawns of passion, the playthings 
of brutish men. These bearded savages would 
not see that she was not one of them, and what 
might the mistake cost her? 

A giant in a flowing black beard surged 
through the crowd, and stormily invited Borden 
to drink with him. Gene looked in fear on the 
stack of drink-seething muscle and flesh, just 
now furnace-hot with the deviltry of drink. His 
blue flannel shirt gaped wide at the neck, reveal- 
ing a chest hairy as a gorilla's. He was a 
wolfish man, and the spirit of the neck was in 
him. He grasped Borden with a large, dirty 
hand, and would have dragged him to the bar 

“Can't do it, Burke, this time. Got another 
lead," said Borden, in a conciliatory manner. 

“Oh, that don't go with me, Bord. No man 
refuses to drink with Burke to-night without 
fighting for it, so come along." 

“Can't do it, Burke. Get some one else to 
drink with you this time. I'm all right busy." 
Borden shook the man off and shouldered into 
the pack. 

This the man interpreted with his fuddled 
wits as an insult which could not be tolerated. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


107 


“I say you’ll drink with me — get it? You’re 
the first man who has had the nerve to refuse, 
and I’ll make you — come on.” 

“You know me, Burke, and I say I won’t.” 
Borden’s words broke like glass. 

“See here, young fellar, you’ve got a pretty 
nifty rep around this here camp for muscle. 
But you’ve never had tightnens with old Burke 
yet, and I reckon this is about as good a time 
as any for us to settle it. Shy your linen, sonny, 
and toe the mark.” 

As he spoke, the giant rolled up his sleeves, 
revealing layers of coarse, animal-like muscles. 
Gene looked from the gorilla to Borden, and 
was surprised to find that the fear which 
affected her was not felt by him. He stood 
looking the giant over with a glance level as the 
rays of the sun, a half-smile on his clean-shaven 
mouth. Gene was surprised at herself for 
making this comparison at such a time. She 
was becoming interested in the issue of this 
contest. There had come to her revelations 
which interested — fascinated her. Men, as she 
had known them, had been mild enough. Cer- 
tainly, they had laughed in a chesty way, and 
sometimes talked with much lung. But never 
till now had she seen the primordial instincts 
of the male nature turned loose. The elemental 
was shaking itself from the slumber of ages. 


108 


THE ANGEL O’ DEAD MAN 


Such things as she was looking upon had hap- 
pened over heaps of raw meat at the cave’s 
mouth; it had been the order of things in the 
primordial forest, when fang met fang and claw 
met claw. 

The gorilla called for a drink, and, while he 
waited, Borden tried to get away. 

“Can’t sneak off like that, youngster; oh, 
no,” said Burke, planting himself before Borden. 

“Once more I tell you that I don’t want 
trouble with you, Burke, and that I have urgent 
business. You are mean to-night from too 
much bar business. Get out of my way. I have 
this young woman with me; she is under my 
protection, and miners respect the right sort 
of women.” 

“Better get out of the way, Burke; Borden 
is grinning in that way of his, and you know 
what that means,” said Jack Harrington, com- 
ing from the room where the Queen lay. 

“Where’d you find her, Bord? I say, she’s 
a beaut, a regular nugget, and well washed,” 
said a miner, placing his hand on Gene’s 
shoulder. 

Before Gene could draw back, or utter the 
cry which rose to her lips, Borden took a quick 
step, and struck the offender with open hand 
on the mouth, sending him backward in a long 
fall to the floor. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


109 


“That looks like you’d fight for the gal,” 
said Burke, edging toward Gene, who drew 
back from him in terror. 

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of old Burke, 
gal. I ain’t going to hurt you. I jest want to 
try it out with this chap, Borden. He’s some 
man, you understand, but so am I, and I feel 
jest like knowing which is the best one.” 

“None of that, Burke! Don’t undertake to 
put your dirty fingers on her — get me?” 

“Oho! That works. Well, you’ll have to 
keep them off, then.” Burke pushed in close. 
Gene recoiled from him as from a maned lion. 

“I guess I’ll have to fight him; there don’t 
seem to be any way out of it,” Borden whis- 
pered to Gene. 

She did not reply, but her glance flashed him 
courage. She marveled at the hardihood of 
any one who could face such a man. Frightened 
as she was, Gene was vaguely conscious of a 
feeling of admiration for her companion, though 
she feared for him in the contest. There must 
have been something of this in her eyes, for he 
smiled and assured her that he had whipped 
worse men. Big as the giant was, he would 
teach him a lesson. 

“He’s strong as a horse, but that is not all 
of it. Wish I could get out of it, though.” 

“Got to do it, sonny. I’ve had this on the 


110 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


book for some time, and I never felt more hefty 
than right now. Whoop-a-ree ! Clear the 
track, boys, the fun’s on.” 

Instantly the crowd formed a circle around 
the two men. There was to be lively work, and 
they welcomed it with cosmic relish. Harring- 
ton crossed and stood with folded arms close 
to Gene. She was instantly enlisted on Borden’s 
side of the fray. The gorilla had forced the 
trouble, and he should not win in the coming 
battle. She hoped that he would receive the 
lesson he needed. Her eyes swept the two men ; 
one ox-like in his massive strength, the other 
wire-woven in every fiber and gloriously fit. 
Above the brushy beard of the giant his cheeks 
showed red as an inflammation. From under 
bushy brows peered small, beady eyes, not bad 
in their natural expression, but banked with 
brute fires just then. 

With some caution he tightened the rolls of 
his shirt-sleeves, spat into the palms of his 
hands, struck his ponderous chest right and 
left, and came thundering to the fight. 

It was all over in a minute. Gene never 
could recall clearly the process of that brief 
test of thews. She was far clearer in the sense 
of admiration with which she looked upon her 
companion. Till that moment she had thought 
of him as a very virile, strong man, given to 


WHAT HAPPENED 


111 


revelry and sin. But out of this struggle shone 
something of moral quality; something that 
made him well-favored in her eyes. There were 
two things quite clear afterwards: Borden’s 
face, with its clear, hard smile, and the sound 
of a blow, full of destruction, followed by the 
collapsing bulk of the gorilla. She remembered 
that Borden helped the bewildered giant to his 
feet, when he came to himself, and that the 
saloon rocked to the yells of the miners. The 
next she remembered was being led out of the 
press by Borden, and that the violin had ceased 
its whine. 

“Mighty sorry I had to get into that,” he 
apologized. “Burke’s a good fellow when he’s 
himself. But he’s been going high to-night, and 
he wanted a mix with me.” 

“I don’t blame you; it served him just right. 
He’ll behave next time,” she replied. 

He looked at her quickly. In that instant 
something had cleared in his soul. The veil 
between the natural and the spiritual was rent 
in a measure, and something infinitely tender 
and soft of tread came in the holy place of his 
being. It was the moment of revelation, of 
clear, sweet truth, and it bathed him in a 
delicious sunshine. His blood went pounding 
through him, and something blew upon his mind 
like the spell of a seer. Truth-tellers entered 


112 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


into him and began to make record, arid he 
knew without effort at classification or reason- 
ing that, from this time on, life to him never 
could be reckoned apart from this woman. He 
was conscious now that he never had been com- 
plete; that there was a complement of his being 
set somewhere in the vast universe, and he had 
found it. It was yet as the mist of the moon 
to Borden, but he knew, as wild things know 
direction, that she was — destiny. 

All this appealed to another element in his 
nature — in all natures of worthy parts — a will- 
ingness to sacrifice, to yield to self-surrender; 
the laying upon the altar of love all that loves. 
This demand, subtle and dominant, challenged 
his love of liberty, for it premonitated captivity. 
Swift on the track of the pleasing discovery 
came a rebellious mood, and he rose against the 
intruding element. 

At the door of the little room stood Jim, his 
eyes full of surprise, and his hand resting easily 
on the slouching holster at his side. 

“So that’s where you went, is it? I’d ’a* 
gambled you’d come back alone.” 

“How’s the Queen?” Borden interrupted. 

“Still alive, and asking for a clean place to 
die — or get well in. She’ll be mighty glad to 
see you, Miss Truxton.” 

Gene entered the room without answering, 








































































































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Wk 


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Gene passed her hand gently over the girl’s face 










WHAT HAPPENED 


113 


and went directly to where the girl lay, her head 
propped with Borden’s coat. As Gene bent over 
her, the feverish eyes of the Queen searched 
her face wonderingly, and a cry of surprise 
burst from her lips. 

“You here ? Why did you come ? How did you 
know ? I remember you — the pure one. I hated 
you that day you came from church, but not like 
the rest, for you spoke to me, and you looked like 
an angel. Oh, I’m so glad you came!” 

Gene passed her hand gently over the girl’s 
forehead with a caressing touch. 

“I came because I wanted to help you, and 
take you home with me. Mr. Borden told me 
that you were hurt, and that you did not want 
to die here. I am sure it would be worse to 
live here.” 

The Queen’s eyes sought Borden’s face. “I 
might have known — he has always been good 
to me. If all men were like him — ” The words 
trailed out in a moan. 

Gene looked into the hot eyes of the girl 
and pitied her. 

“Will you go with me?” she asked. “I can 
take good care of you, and I am quite sure you 
will get well.” 

“Oh, do! Take me away — take me some- 
where. I don’t want to stay here.” 

Spent with pain and loss of blood, the Queen 


114 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


became unconscious. In her delirium she bab- 
bled of those she had known in childhood. 
Often in the incoherent flow the name of her 
mother appeared. Now she was back with her 
playmates and school-fellows. Later she was 
giving her promise to some one. After this 
came cursing and pleadings. 

Gene's eyes were full of tears as she gave 
orders to have the girl taken to her house. 
Refusing the aid which Jack Harrington urged 
upon him, Borden lifted the girl in his arms and 
carried her into the street, the other at his side. 
As he passed through the barroom, the gorilla 
stepped out close to him: 

“I say, sonny, you're all right. Did it on the 
dead square, and gave me about what was com- 
ing to me. From this on, Burke's your friend, 
remember that. If you ever need me in any 
way, you know where to find me." 

“We'll call it square, old man," Borden 
answered pleasantly, and passed out. 

The crowds of the street parted to let the 
four pass, staring hard after them till the mist 
of the night swallowed them up. With a feeling 
of infinite relief, Gene crossed the little bridge 
which separated the dense part of the camp 
from the scattered cabins among the pines. Jim 
and Harrington pushed ahead to show the trail, 
and Borden dropped back with Gene. 


WHAT HAPPENED 


115 


“You've given me something of a different 
view of things to-night, Miss Truxton. I ad- 
mire your courage. I never dreamed of you 
offering to go down to that place. I know it 
seemed like the regions of inferno to you. There 
are not many would have risked it.” 

“It is awful!” she replied. “I felt like one 
surrounded by lost spirits — and I think I was. 
I am surprised at myself for going. But she 
might have died there in that horrible place, 
with no one to say a word to her.” Gene 
shuddered. 

“I’ve seen the day I would argue that with 
you. But, somehow, it looks different to me 
to-night.” 

“I hardly see how you could do that,” she 
replied conclusively. 

“You must not get too bad an opinion of 
those fellows; they are not as bad as they 
appear. When they get too much whisky they 
are given to noise and fighting, but, sober and 
away, they are an honest, rugged set; ready to 
go to death for you, or divide the last blanket 
or crust.” 

“I feel sorry for this poor girl,” Gene went 
on, turning from the drift of conversation. 

“Yes, so do I,” he agreed with spirit. “She's 
not all bad, either. One might think so, but 
she's not. She'd give her last dollar to any 


116 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


one in trouble, and she has done it many a time. 
All she needs is to get the old light back to her 
eyes and she'd be as pretty as a picture. There’s 
a chance for that girl to be worthy of any man 
or woman’s regard.” 

“Who is the man ahead ?” she asked 
casually. 

“Oh, that’s Jack Harrington. He’s one of 
the spenders of the camp. Has plenty of 
money, too, and always stood by the Queen. 
He’s a handsome dog, and full of meanness; 
though, like the rest, he has his good points. I 
never liked his pace, though — too swift for me, 
and a little too far from clean work. I don’t 
mind it if a chap throws off the conventional, 
but I want him to carry a pay-streak of real 
manhood.” 

She glanced at him with an amused light 
in her eyes. 

He laughed. “I understand. You think 
that means that Harrington is some bad one. 
Well, both of us might make improvement.” 

They had reached the bend of the trail from 
which the light of the Truxton cabin could be 
seen. In a few minutes they were at the door, 
and Aunt Ruth was expressing her surprise in 
a series of exclamations and questions which 
she did not expect answered. 

Borden placed the unconscious girl on the 


WHAT HAPPENED 


117 


bed, and then stepped back to give Superintend- 
ent Truxton a chance to examine the wound. 
The old man had picked up a crude knowledge 
of surgery in the camps of the frontier, and it 
came in good just now. 

“Used to know something about this sort 
of thing myself,” he began, bustling about get- 
ting water and linen. “Many's the chap I've 
pulled through because I understood how to get 
a pistol ball out of a wound.” Making a hasty 
examination, he pronounced the Queen well 
within the zone of hope. 

“Not fatal, but bad enough. It don't need to 
kill her, though. Get me towels and a stimulant, 
Gene. I'll have her fixed up in a jig's time.” 

While her father dressed the wound, Gene 
prepared a comfortable cot near her own bed 
in the rear room. Harrington stood for some 
minutes looking down at the troubled features 
of the unconscious girl, a strange expression on 
his face. 

“I'll pay all the expense that may attach to 
this case,” he said, turning to Gene. “We must 
save her if possible — poor Minnie!” He stood 
for some time gazing at the wan face, now 
almost childish in its drawn beauty. “Poor 
Minnie,” he repeated, “her feet have been fear- 
fully torn. We'll keep track of how she fares, 
and if there's anything we can do, let us know.” 


118 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


When all had been done that could be, Bor- 
den went down the trail with his companion, 
through the clasping night. 

“I tell you, Borden, this thing’s hell, red 
hell! It’s got on my nerves. When I saw that 
girl shot half to death, I felt like putting giant 
under that whole side of the street and blowing 
it, barkeep, booze, drunks, fiddles, and all, out of 
the canyon.” 

Borden laughed. “You’re nervous, Jack. 
You’ll feel differently to-morrow. I know you. 
It’s an impulse that’s got you to-night. Within 
three days you’ll be flying high, and you won’t 
care whether the Queen lives or dies.” 

“Sorry you have such an opinion of me, 
Borden. But you’re wrong this time. It’s bad 
— all bad, and always that. I’m no angel, and 
I’ve had my fling, but there’s a strange feeling 
got me. I can appreciate what is best. Wish 
1 was tied to a clean woman ! God ! I’d love her 
and worship her eternally.” 

Borden stiffened: “A good woman for you, 
Harrington! Forget it. Why should you ex- 
pect a good woman? You’ve wallowed in the 
stews and baited the butterflies ; you’ve fed your 
soul on the re^ lotus when you should have 
given it the white narcissus. Now, you cry out 
for a clean woman, and ten to one you’ll win 
out on that point; but you should not.” 


WHAT HAPPENED 


119 


Harrington looked at his companion without 
replying. Busy thought was weaving its web, 
and starting seeds in his better nature were 
daring to stir under the warmth of the mood 
which possessed him. 

“So you think I’ll forget it, do you? Well, 
that’s my nature, and I may. But, whether I 
do or not, facts are facts, and what I say is 
true; this thing is scarlet, purple-dyed in its 
meanness. Whether I quit or not — and I don’t 
think I’ll quit — I’ll always know that I saw 
clearly to-night.” 

Borden watched the trim figure gliding down 
the trail till the night took him into its misty 
depths. 

“A pure woman for Jack Harrington! He 
wants a pure woman! Well, Gene Truxton is 
pure. But she would not be pure long if he 
touched her with his debonair hands.” 

For some time Borden stood thinking un- 
classified thoughts; then he turned and went 
into the cabin. 


VII 


THE WAY OF THE CAMP 

B ORDEN knew that Pierre would seek a 
date for settlement. In his way he loved 
the Queen, and the fact that she had spurned 
him stung him to madness. He had watched 
Borden carry the unconscious girl away, and 
in his soul there was born an evil determination 
to let blood. Borden understood all this per- 
fectly, and went armed. 

In the fascination of the kill-lust, the lust 
for blood by the man who has opened the veins 
of big game, the Frenchman schemed to take 
Borden's life. Borden knew that the shot 
which had wounded the Queen was intended 
for him, and that in the serpent nature of the 
villain this fact would be an added inducement 
for the deed. He determined, therefore, not to 
be found sleeping. 

The morning came like the passing of 
spirits. The hills lifted themselves from a dusk 
overmastering in its vastness. Here and there 
the upper peaks burst into yellow flame. These 

accentuated the muffled mass of heave and ridge 
120 


THE WAY OF THE GAMP 


121 


below. A thin mist hung over the canyon, tip- 
ping the aspen groves in pale streamers. Bor- 
den walked under the pines near his cabin and 
breathed the crisp air. There was life in it, and 
the taste was good. 

Jim prepared breakfast and called his part- 
ner in. They ate almost in silence. At last 
Borden became willing to talk. In detail they 
went over the events of the night before. That 
there must be a settlement both knew, and they 
nerved themselves for it. 

When they left the cabin the sun had flooded 
the mountain land, and the shadows were gone 
out of the canyons. 

“Think V 11 swing up the trail and see how 
the Queen's making it," said Borden, going out. 

He was restless, and his ideas were a tumult. 
He had tried to analyze them, but gave it up. 
Of one thing there was no doubt; he wished to 
see Gene Truxton again. He rebelled at this. 
It had all come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, 
that Borden was silenced with wonder. He 
never had reckoned on this side of his nature. 
In fact, he did not know till now that he had 
such a side. 

Gene met him at the door, smiling. Her 
cloud of bright hair sprayed about her face. 
She was dressed in cool white. For a moment 
he stood by the bed and spoke rambling, mean- 


122 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


ingless things to the Queen. The girl lay pale 
and suffering, but she smiled at his confusion, 
for she guessed the reason of it. Languidly her 
glance wandered out where Gene went about 
the tasks of the morning. She was a glorious 
creature, made for the gardens of love. When 
Borden was gone, she turned wearily to Gene: 

“He’s rough in a way, but good. Tve 
known him here in the camp, and he’s not like 
other men. He drinks at times, just to set 
something going, but I never saw him under the 
influence of it. He swears fearfully when he 
gets mad, but he’s clean. He’s been like a 
brother to me. A little while before I was 
hurt, he was telling me to get out of that 
place, and trying to give me hope. He has 
education, if he cared to use it; but he loves the 
turmoil and excitement of the saloons where a 
mongrel speech is used. I’ll always remember 
him for a real and true friend.” The girl 
looked languidly out of the window, where a 
clump of mountain cherry banked its white 
glory against the wall. Some petals were 
caught by a breath of air and blown over her 
couch. She gathered them in her hands, one by 
one, and crushed them. Gene saw the look on 
her face and knew that she was seeing her own 
wind-swept life, from the bough of cleanness to 
the wallows of the street. 


THE WAY OF THE GAMP 


123 


Jim leaned in the door and waited for 
Borden. 

“She’s getting on all right,” the latter volun- 
teered, seeing the question in the eyes of his 
partner. “I have to go uptown for fuse and 
powder — want to go along?” 

Jim nodded and swung into the trail. The 
sight of Gene Truxton had intensified the fever 
in Borden’s blood, and threw his wits into a 
more aggravating tangle. Something took life 
within him, dominated his soul, and stirred him 
with a strange hunger — a hunger for Gene 
Truxton which would abide with him forever. 

Deadman seethed with a virile life. New 
strikes had brought in swarms of gold-hunters 
and adventurers. Streams of men came and 
went on the street, and pack-trains trailed down 
the canyons, or wound through the camp, laden 
with the output of the mines to which no road 
could be made. Ore-wagons thundered to and 
from the mills. The saloons emptied themselves 
upon the street. Here and there a barkeep, in 
white apron, could be seen leaning against the 
side of a door, while gamblers trimmed their 
ivory nails in cool preparation for the next 
victim of their black art. All were drinking the 
anodyne of the sun and air. Through this jam 
of men Pierre went and came, feline, tawny. 
Suddenly he grew tense, peering between the 


124 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


groups like a cougar watching the browsing 
deer in a mountain glade — Borden was walking 
directly toward him. 

The mind of Pierre worked fast He had 
loved a girl ; he, Lewis Pierre. He had followed 
that girl from camp to camp till he found her — 
found her calling for a toast for this miner. 
Sacre! It had all gone ill. His bullet was wild. 
Doubtless the girl was dead. No one should 
interfere with his aim this time. 

Moving quickly to where half a dozen men 
lounged, the Frenchman spoke low words and 
passed on, but there was one who had seen the 
movement, and understood. 

‘Til just head off this little game of 
Frenchie’s, and I’ll see that the boy has a 
show/’ mused Burke, edging up close to the 
group. 

Presently one of the men moved away at 
such an angle as to intercept Borden. The 
others fell in behind him. It was all in har- 
mony with that strange spirit of change which 
keeps crowds moving, and Borden noticed 
nothing unusual. 

“He put me down and out in good shape, 
but I don’t hold nothing agin him,” Burke con- 
tinued to himself. Borden stopped as a heavy 
hand gripped his shoulder, and, turning, he 
looked into the face of the giant. 


THE WAY OF THE GAMP 


125 


“Hello, Burke !” he greeted, good-naturedly. 
“How are you?” 

“Able for my bacon,” laughed the gorilla. 

“Glad to hear it, old fellow. Hope we won't 
need another try-out — eh?” 

“One's enough for me, thanks !” Then 
lower, “The Frenchman is planning trouble; 
look out.” 

Borden nodded. “I'm wise to it, Burke, and 
— ready.” Borden moved on, and Pierre's 
henchmen drew up. A gambler accosted him: 

“I say, Borden, how's the girl? Not any 
old tunnel-badger can walk into a saloon and 
carry off a pretty little creature like that, bodily. 
Where’d you cash her, anyway?” 

The purpose of this was all clear to Borden, 
and his reply was to send the man in a 
heap to the sidewalk, then, whirling about, he 
faced the Frenchman, who had drawn a re- 
volver. 

“I know your game, Pierre, so don't sneak. 
Get in the open and face the showdown.” Bor- 
den stood fiercely defiant, his hand at his hip. 

Pierre's henchmen began to press in. 

“Stand back there, you set of thieves and 
bar-flies,” thundered Burke, shouldering his 
way through the crowd. “If one of you fellows 
bats an eye, I'll let daylight through you — get 
me?” The men fell back. 


126 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“This camp is too small for both of us/’’ 
hissed the Frenchman, his evil glance riveted on 
Borden. 

“Then leave.” 

“Perhaps. But go with me as far as the 
street, will you?” 

“With pleasure, Frenchie,” Borden replied, 
pushing to the edge of the sidewalk. 

“Fair play, remember! Fll settle with the 
man who interferes,” bawled Burke. 

Pierre shot him a menacing glance and 
stepped into the street. The crowd rolled in 
against the houses, leaving the two men facing 
each other at twenty paces. Both were cool, 
both were smiling, both were dangerous. Pierre 
stood with level weapon, Borden with folded 
arms. Jim edged to a place where he spoke 
steel-like jests to his partner, though he held a 
drawn revolver in his hand. 

“Are you ready, men?” 

Borden turned to the crowd: “This is no 
plan of mine; the Frenchman wants it. Last 
night he tried for my life and wounded the 
Queen. There seems to be nothing for it but 
a fight, for that man don't live who can push 
me off the sidewalk, or say where I may go. 
I'm ready, Frenchie; it's your shot.” 

A crash and cloud of blue smoke was the 
answer. With a catlike movement the French- 


THE WAY OF THE GAMP 


127 


man stepped aside to get the effect of his shot, 
and saw Borden standing with folded arms. 
With an oath the Frenchman prepared to fire 
again, but before he could bring his weapon to 
range, Borden sent a ball into his shoulder, and 
the Frenchman’s arm sagged limply. 

“Are you satisfied, or shall I finish you?” 
Borden asked, his weapon still in position. 

With fine bravado the Frenchman picked 
his revolver from the road with his left hand, 
only to receive a second disabling wound in that 
shoulder as well, and he sank to the ground, 
whimpering for his life. 

“The fight’s off,” yelled one of the hench- 
men, bounding into the street, flourishing a 
revolver. Instantly a dozen more surrounded 
their chief. 

Burke went through them like a loos- 
ened cliff, scattering them like leaves. He had 
not considered it necessary to touch his holster, 
but his huge fists went out right and left, 
leaving vacant spots where men had stood, and 
his deep voice rolled over them like thunder. 
Kelly went smiling to a point where he com- 
manded the ranks of the henchmen. Jack Har- 
rington edged to the sidewalk, debonair and 
smiling, a dangerous quantity. Borden stood 
eager and aroused. 

“There’ll be scarlet work in Deadman if one 


128 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


of those fellows opens fire,” said Borden, his 
hand at his hip. 

Burke shouldered among the gamblers, his 
mountain battle-cry ringing a challenge. Bor- 
den joined him. He was thoroughly aroused 
now, and poured a stream of insult on the gang. 
Slowly the henchmen disappeared, howling 
threats. 

“The devil will be to pay with that bunch 
yet,” commented Kelly, going down the street 
with his partner. 

“Hurrah for Borden!” rumbled the giant, 
and instantly a hundred voices repeated the 
cheer. 

“That’s a nest of murderers,” said Borden, 
decisively, “and they are doing all manner of 
shady work. A miner found dead up one of the 
creeks and his dust gone. Another robbed and 
thrown into a shaft with his heart holding a 
bullet. That’s the gang that’s doing the work.” 

“Frenchie won’t get into a game for awhile,” 
laughed Kelly. 

“I could have finished him, but I don’t like 
the look of blood — for it’s hard to get off the 
hands.” 

“You did the right thing, pard. But you 
sure can swear some. I never heard you beat 
it. Where did you learn it, anyway? You made 
my hair stand up. Really, Borden, I think the 


THE WAY OF THE GAMP 


129 


devil could take lessons from you in that line.” 

Borden’s face clouded. “I don’t like to hear 
you say that, Jim,” he replied, “for I had made 
up my mind to quit. Must be second nature to 
me, for I didn’t know I was doing it. But I 
stop that here and now ! Get me ?” 

“I get you, pard,” Kelly answered. 

“I mean it,” Borden said, conclusively, going 
in the direction of the company store. 


VIII 


THE TOUCH OF LOVE 

G ENE found her hands very full. 

The wound of the Queen healed slowly. 
For days she lay pale and wistful, pensively 
thankful for every kindness.. With her recovery 
came clearer eyes and a purer skin. Slowly the 
traces of sin left her face, and a look of peace 
made her good to see. She had been very 
weary, and this time of quiet had come in which 
she might rest. She had been very thirsty, 
moving over a vast desert of sand and sun, 
where cruel spines slashed her feet, but unex- 
pectedly she had entered a cool valley full of 
shadows and fountains. Back there, she had 
come to weigh all things in the scales of flesh, 
and to doubt the motives of those who touched 
her life; but in a night the old ideality had come 
back. Faint as a lost will-o’-the-wisp at first, 
it is true, but growing stronger each day. Out 
there in the ditches of excess she had lain a 
dead thing among the dead. But there had 
come a resurrection, a life-giving touch — the 
touch of love. 


130 


THE TOUGH OF LOVE 


131 


Aunt Ruth had ventured out under the pines, 
needle-work in hand, and some crackers for the 
squirrel which lived in the trees. Gene put the 
cabin in order, placed her father’s slippers 
where they should be, polished the stove, and 
put new papers on the shelves. Then she drew 
a chair close to the bed where the Queen lay.* 
The girl turned her wistful eyes on her face, 
and smiled. 

“How kind you have been,” she began, 
almost timidly. “I know I should have died in 
that place if you had not come. I shall live 
because you have cared for me so well. But I 
wanted to die; I prayed to die — but not there.” 

Gene put her hand on the girl’s forehead 
with a caressing touch. 

“You are too young to die, Minnie. Life 
holds much for you that is good. I want you 
to get well — to get strong, and you will. You 
must get hope back. They have treated you 
very cruelly, Minnie ; they have put many stripes 
upon your heart. But you must forget and 
forgive that. It must all come to be a dark, 
vague dream to you, in which you see yourself 
walking as in a mist. Remember that spring 
by spring the flowers open and the birds sing. 
Out there the blue-eyed grass is a-love, and the 
Mariposa lilies pray together in the glades. 
These are all for you.” 


132 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“For me?” the girl repeated, drawing the 
hand from her forehead to her lips. 

“Yes, for you, Minnie, and their message is 
one of hope and peace. See the sunshine flood- 
ing through the door; it comes in wherever we 
give it a chance. Down in the glades the white 
streams are singing with crystal lips the endless 
song of the love of God. I hear praise in the 
pine-tops, and devotion in the laurel, and the 
Man divine comes walking upon the golden 
waves of light. Oh, it’s all so beautiful, Min- 
nie, so wide and tender! The streams rush to 
the sea with their freight of poison, and the 
salt heart of the ocean takes out the impurity 
and sends them back in snowstorms and sum- 
mer rain. Think of these things, Minnie, and 
you will forget — that way we can all forget — 
that you were sent to the ocean of love to be 
washed, for you will walk among us in white. 
You understand me, dear ... I mean we can 
all forget that we have gone down impure, but 
remember with gladness that we came back 
the snow.” 

The girl wept in soft, sweet grief. “You 
are so good and pure, Miss Truxton, I wonder 
that you touched me. When I see you going 
about, your face full of its strange, wonderful 
beauty, and your bright hair falling about your 
head, it seems I am watching something that 


THE TOUGH OF LOVE 


133 


does not belong to this world. Look at me! I 
sent my soul in the way of Cain; I have lived 
among dragons in a dragonish land; I have 
drunk deeply from the poisoned waters and my 
brain has reeled. But you . . . your eyes are 
like water, the white waters in the glades, and 
your soul as the quartz crystal. Oh, if only I 
could be like you. Can I ever have that look I 
see in your face ? I had it once, but a cloud 
blotted out the light; an unclean hand smeared 
the slate of my heart.” 

Gene put her hand over the girl's lips. 

“You must not say such things about me, 
Minnie, - for I’m not an angel ; I am very far 
from that. I try to be good, but I have no 
reason to boast. Had my lot been yours, how 
would the story read? With my nature, it 
would doubtless be far worse. But be sure 
your eyes will get like the water if you live for 
it. Really, dear, they are that way now. You 
are pretty, Minnie, and when you know the 
bursting of the inner fountain along all the 
channels of your life, then will flash the crystal 
and appear the snow. The shadows will go out 
of your face and you will be your old self 
again.” 

“How beautiful and full of hope your words 
are! But tell me how this can be.” The girl 
waited eagerly. 


134 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Into the vases of your life you have gath- 
ered weeds and nightshade; let us throw out 
the weeds and bring in lilies. You have sat 
with vultures by carrion — we all have — but now 
you must walk the uplands where the larks of 
holiness sing, and white doves of purity will fly 
to your windows.” 

“It is so, Miss Truxton; the grass and the 
water and the rain don’t seem to know we have 
sinned, and the sun never pays any attention 
to what we have done. I lived once in an alley. 
There were heaps of rubbish, and a place where 
swine bedded at night. It was foul with stench 
and clutter. As I sat there it began to snow, 
and I watched till the soft white had covered 
all those scars with a healing of purity. I was 
lonely, and I cried, for I knew my heart was 
like .that alley. Then I put out my hands and 
the crystals fell upon them. I wanted to be like 
them, and I said it into the feathery cloud. But 
I thought it impossible.” 

“God is like that,” Gene replied fervently. 

“He must be, for he made the snow!” 

“Look at those cherry flowers in the window, 
those shadows under the pines, those sun- 
drenched glades. All these are trying to teach 
us something of the great love which has spared 
us, and which hovers over us always. You 
must just lie here and let the breeze come in 


THE TOUGH OF LOVE 


135 


and kiss you; he’s an ardent lover, but a pure 
one. You must tell the sunshine your longings, 
for it will understand, and it will pour gold on 
your hair. And sometime, when a very deep 
and tender moment melts on your heart its holy 
meaning, then talk to God ; tell him all, and the 
breast of Christ will rest your head like your 
mother’s once did.” 

“Oh, that is so beautiful! So beautiful! 
But I have been bad, very bad. You can’t 
understand ... if you only could!” 

“Tell me — tell me all,” Gene prompted, 
knowing that the heart heals more quickly after 
being emptied of its clots. 

“You will shudder, I know. But I have felt 
that I would be farther from it all if I did con- 
fess it out of my conscience. But you must be 
like the sunshine and the flowers out there, and 
not mind.” 

“I will understand,” Gene answered, as she 
took the girl’s thin hand in hers. “You know, 
Minnie, evil is not so far from any of us that 
we need to deny the introduction. We neighbor 
with it, and have it for guest at all seasons. 
We have not all gone the more rugged way, yet 
I am sure most of our decisions for or against 
right are conditioned upon circumstances. Life 
is filled with moments, tense moments, which, 
like acorns, are capable of vast births. I have 


136 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


thought that love, truth and hope are things 
which have their seasons. They break through 
the soil of the heart, and, once rooted, they will 
grow in spite of wind or tide. Sometimes we 
arrive at strange crossings — misty crossings — 
when we can scarcely guess to what the dim 
way may lead. The greatest sin is choosing to 
follow the wrong way after we have learned 
the right one.” 

“I have done that, too,” confessed the Queen, 
brokenly. 

“We all have been guilty of the same thing.” 

The Queen was quiet for some time. Then 
she turned to Gene with a weary little sigh. 

“Will you be like the rain if I tell you?” 

“And the snow,” Gene added, holding the 
girl's hand very close and warm. 

“It is dark, very dark. You will not always 
understand. I do not. The pages are blotted. 
Since being hurt, I have seen myself down there 
in those dark years, and I have wondered if it 
could be me. I seem to have been watching the 
foolishness of some one else. If only I could 
have had a sister, a brother. But I was alone, 
and sent adrift so young. Oh, I have seen and 
felt so much! Days of half sleep and nights of 
revelry; and always I see lines of swinish men, 
drinking, drinking, drinking! That seemed the 
devil's best joke. In my ears now is the bellow- 


THE TOUGH OF LOVE 


137 


in g and the blasphemy. I shudder — I am glad 
I do — for I was there among them.” 

The Queen hesitated, and her eyes showed 
that she was thinking. Gathering courage from 
the pressure of Gene’s hand, she went on bravely 
to the end of the story — the strange, tragic, 
mournful story, so like all others, and yet so 
different. Here and there the curtain was well 
lifted. Again, there was but a partial glimpse, 
a suggestion which spoke more than the detail 
would have conveyed. When the story was 
done, the lashes of both women were wet. With 
a mutual movement and impulse they drew to- 
gether, and Gene folded the girl in her arms. 
Slipping to her knees, while the Queen wept 
after the manner of women, Gene breathed low, 
burning words of pleading into the ear of Him 
who attends the funeral of all sparrows that 
fall. There could be no mistake in this. Gene 
was conscious that her own spirit was flowing 
unhindered to love’s best center, and that every 
sphere was trembling with willing and desireful 
answer. The Queen sobbed softly, and The 
Color, who had slipped in just at the right time, 
kissed them both impulsively. 


IX 


LAUGHING BROOKIE 

HE lessons at the old powder cabin had 



A gone on regularly, and The Color had 
astonished her teacher with her capacity for 
work and her aptness to understand. In fact, 
so persistent had been her application that 
Gene found it necessary to caution her against 
overdoing. 

Already there was a marked change in her 
language, and she grasped the problems given 
her with a vim good to see. A tie of friendship 
formed between teacher and pupil which was 
deep and lasting. Gene saw all the buds of 
promise bursting into bloom in the wild heart 
of the girl, and she rejoiced over her. 

But it was to music that she turned with 
the supremest passion. She reveled in it, threw 
her soul into it, measure by measure. 

It was the hour for study, and the two 
women went up the trail, leaving the Queen 
alone. With a strange peace upon her, she lay 
looking out at the blossoming cherry and the 
cool pines, with the blue hills beyond. 


138 


LAUGHING BROOKIE 


139 


“Jim says I am getting along all right,” The 
Color began. 

“You are, dear, and I am proud of you.” 

“But I am beginning to see that there is 
more than just knowing things. You know 
everything, it seems, and yet you don't put that 
first . . . you are always doing something for 
some one else. See how you have helped the 
Queen. I am beginning to see that making 
others happy is the greatest thing in the world.” 

“You are right. Doing good is the greatest 
science of all, and truth is knowledge. Learn 
to pity, and to seek the joy of others, and you 
will have found the best things in life.” 

“Jim has talked about that to me, but not 
just that way. I think his mother told him 
good things, for he knows about them. But I 
wish he would quit going to the saloons. He 
don't get drunk, but I — I — wish he wouldn't.” 
The girl turned and gazed with unseeing eyes 
down into the warm valley, where the streams 
wound between banks fringed with the airy 
grace of willows. 

“Let us hope he will,” Gene replied, drawing 
the girl into the cabin. 

“I know where we can do some good,” the 
girl suggested, changing from her pensive mood 
to one of sparkling interest. “Old Brookie is 
sick over there in his cabin. ‘Laughing Brookie,' 


140 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


the boys call him, because he is so jolly. He 
has a dog that does tricks in the saloons, and 
that’s the way he gets his drinks and something 
to eat.” 

> “I'll go and see him to-day; and if I can do 
anything for him I will. Poor old fellow, one 
never knows how such have come to what they 
are. It is easy to go down-hill when started.” 

In the afternoon Gene and The Color crossed 
the stream and followed the path up to the old 
man’s cabin. He received them with cordial 
surprise. 

“I reckon I know you, first off. You’re the 
gal the chap called Nugget down in the saloon 
that night you went after the Luck Queen, 
ain’t ye?” 

Gene acknowledged that he was right. 

“Well, what sort of a gal are ye, anyway, 
lookin’ after such folks as her and me? I’ve 
heerd of angels, but I always had my doubts 
about them. Begin to think I’m wrong, though.” 
The old man lay quietly watching Gene as 
she went deftly through the cabin, bringing 
order out of chaos as only the hand of a 
woman can. 

Day by day the visits were made. Some- 
times The Color went along; oftener Gene went 
alone, till, once more on his cane, Laughing 
Brookie hobbled down to the Bald Eagle and 


LAUGHING BROOKIE 


141 


sang the praise of the “Angel O’ Deadman,” 
who had nursed him back to life. The new 
term took, and the native sentiment, which is to 
be found in the breasts of rugged and chesty 
men, 'lingered over the pleasing term. It was 
repeated around the fires of the miners, and 
instantly took permanent place in the unwritten 
poetry of the hills. Many a shaggy circle is 
stirred and made tender when some silent 
miner, who has been gazing into the fire for an 
hour, suddenly speaks out some bit of choice 
sentiment; which, contrasted with his ordinary 
moods and manner of expression, is like a ruby 
in a bank of black sand. It was Laughing 
Brookie, a by-word and a clown, who coined the 
name “Angel O’ Deadman”; and it was a thou- 
sand more like him who gave it permanent place 
in their speech. 

There had been reminiscent moments when 
the old man spoke of the past and long-lost 
friends. Out of the treasuries of the years he 
brought sacred things, and Gene, sitting by him 
in the long, delicious afternoons, listened to the 
tale of a heart which had known its woundings. 

When she learned, through Kelly and The 
Color, that the old man was back in the Bald 
Eagle, she was sad. When she protested, he 
looked at her in a puzzled way, and replied after 
his own manner: 


142 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Reckon it does look bad to you, Miss, but 
that's the only thing I've known for forty years. 
Man can’t stay in his cabin all the time, and the 
saloon becomes his home. There he meets the 
boys and the stir of things. Ain’t any other 
place for an old loafer like me to go. There I 
meet my own kind, the chaps of the trail and 
the grass, and sometimes a drink is good.” 

“Don’t say that! See what it has done for 
you, and the rest,” she protested. 

“That’s so, gal, that’s so. It gits us in the 
end. I know that, and have for many a day. 
If there was any other place to go, reckon I 
would; but there ain’t, and a feller’s, got to go 
somewhere.” 

“You say if there was some other place to 
go, you would?” Gene was thinking fast. 

“Why, yes, I reckon so, if it was a place 
where an old bacon-eater like me could meet 
the boys.” 

She made no further reply, but her mind 
was busy with plans for the future as she went 
down the hill. 


X 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 

S LOWLY the days went by. 

Borden had passed through many moods. 
Filled constantly with the thought of Gene 
Truxton and a wish to be near her, he had 
experienced intermittent eruptions of rebellion 
against the element which had entered into his 
life and seemed determined to bring him into 
captivity. Yet — strange paradox! — he found 
himself improving every opportunity to become 
completely lost in the sweet, sad power. 

When the fire burned low in the cabin and 
Jim’s heavy breathing told him that the care- 
free Hibernian was asleep, he sat thinking, 
thinking, following the shadowy form which 
walked the cloudland of his soul with her white 
feet shod in disquieting sandals. 

In these moments Gene Truxton seemed very 
far from him. With soul clearness he knew 
that he should not confuse her approachableness 
with a more serious feeling. There was a wide 
stretch of uncertain ground between them. 
About the strong, pure girl there was a mesh of 

143 


144 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


haunting mystery which wrapped her round like 
the shining of stars, leaving her remote as 
twilight and intangible as music on water. In 
her presence he found that he was generally 
confused, eager or rebellious; yet he ever com- 
mitted himself more fully to this strange stream, 
which was sweeping him he could not guess 
where. 

If Gene had opened her eyes wide at the 
discoveries she had made when she saw Borden 
confront with cold joy the ponderous hulk of 
the gorilla, far more had Borden marveled at 
the things he had discovered in her. 

He tried to classify by a miner’s method 
what he saw in her eyes, but the truth escaped 
him. There were times when an unconscious 
yielding, a playful mood on her part, disarmed 
him. Yet within a minute all this might pas's 
and a strange reserve settle between them which 
he could not analyze. Perhaps she was amused 
at him. The thought brought an oath to his 
lips. It might be she thought him an interesting 
specimen of the local male gender; if so, he 
would have all the Truxtons in the world know 
that he, too, had read books and had traveled. 
If he chose to be himself, and if the salt Bohe- 
mian smacked good in his mouth, all that was 
his own business. It might be that she looked 
upon him as a savage. Possibly the Bald Eagle 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


145 


life had come to mean less to him in an immoral 
way than to those who were strange to it, but 
he had not lost the bearings of his manhood, 
and he, too, could boast somewhat if he would. 
Still, Borden was well aware that the thing 
which separated them more than anything else 
was her firm conviction of right. That she 
never would consent to anything that was low 
or unworthy he knew, and his desire to remove 
all that might separate them widened into some- 
thing of a moral adjustment which he began to 
be willing to make. 

In the end, all this was good for Borden, 
for it led him to a careful review of his life. 
Things which had assumed the positions of 
pride and worth gradually sank to common 
faults which it would be as well to cast aside. 
Thus, feverish and ill at ease, he lived the 
days, growing more and more restless and 
taciturn. 

Jim watched his partner with feelings of 
wonder, yet, true to that native breeding which 
goes with men who dwell together, he asked no 
unwelcome questions. In moments of abstrac- 
tion, when Borden ceased without reason to 
strike the drill or leaned on the car at the dump 
and looked with unseeing eyes into the blue dis- 
tance, he said nothing, for he believed he under- 
stood. Gradually Jim came to show his partner 


146 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


little favors, as we do those who have been sick 
or have fallen into sorrow ; and, when he could, 
took upon himself the heavier tasks. 

There was one thing which afforded Jim 
some quiet amusement — the fact that Borden 
requested his most sentimental songs. While he 
sang them, his partner would sit with eyes on 
the fire and make no comments. Borden had 
taken to walking under the pines in the moon- 
light. To his feverish spirit there was some- 
thing soothing in this, and the mountain winds 
in the pines told him of a sorrow which he 
wished to hear. 

The Fourth of July drew on, and it became 
a problem to Kelly how he could arouse Borden 
from the listless mood into which he had 
fallen. There was much practicing to be done 
for the contest in which they were to en- 
gage, and neglect meant defeat. Deadman 
came behind no city in its loyalty to all popu- 
lar events, and the camp planned a thrill- 
ing celebration. Of course, as it always had 
been, Boulder Bar, a /ival camp for county 
honors and trade, had issued challenges, which 
Deadman accepted. The towns had kept about 
the same pace in growth and wealth, and were 
in the same class as to situation. It fol- 
lowed, therefore, that the things said by the 
editor of the Deadman Prospect or against the 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


147 


editor of the Boulder Bar Times were mostly 
creations of overheated brains in view of the 
love of gain. 

The war between the editors, who, by the 
way, felt themselves the defenders of all the 
individual interests of the two camps, led 
to innumerable saloon brawls and battered 
heads. 

The year before, Deadman had lost the con- 
test for fast drilling to Boulder Bar by the 
margin of three inches. This had led to a year 
of incrimination between the papers which the 
people of the respective camps came to consider 
their individual opinions. This disgrace must 
be wiped out, but Deadman would have need to 
worry, for the rival camp claimed the swiftest 
driller in the hills. This wonder was known 
among his backers as Cornish Lightning. 

Against this prodigy Borden had been 
chosen to appear in the coming contest, and he 
had entered into the matter with characteristic 
energy. But, upon the coming of the new force 
into his life, he had half forgotten it all, grow- 
ing indifferent to the matter in the deeper 
things which absorbed him. Jim saw this and 
grew impatient. There was much to be worked 
out. They must learn how to change drills 
quickly; cease turning to strike, cease striking 
to turn. All this required practice, and plenty 


148 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


of it; but so far he had failed to get Borden 
interested. 

At this critical juncture Jim worked out a 
scheme by which to stir the iron in his partner’s 
soul. As was his habit, he carried his troubles 
to The Color, and that piquant girl believed 
that if she could suggest to Borden that Gene 
Truxton was to watch the contest he would 
come to himself. 

Kelly planned to have The Color innocently 
communicate the fact the next day. Meeting 
them as they went up the trail the following 
morning, the girl rallied Borden confidently, yet 
assured him that the man who defeated the 
Cornish Lightning woud have to know the 
stroke. It all came in naturally enough. Gene 
would be there. Superintendent Truxton, being 
on the committee of arrangements, had seen to 
it that the women would have front seats near 
the contestants. It worked perfectly. Borden 
awoke that very day. Jim smiled. Nothing 
was done in the tunnel, but a dozen boulders 
around it had strange holes in them that 
night. 

A contest never fails to draw a crowd. The 
Fourth arrived, clear and cool, and found all 
the committees in their places with their work 
well in hand. Deadman took on extra fever. 
Every vein of it seethed with bubbling blood. 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


149 


Animal spirits spilled over, dominant and raw. 
The crawling streams of men moved a little 
quicker along their sidewalk channels. Down 
every trail came chesty knights of the pick 
and shovel, clad in clean blue flannel shirts, 
well open at the throat, and canvas overalls. 
The swing of them was good, the dare of 
them was a zest, their eyes were so many 
challenges. 

Stormy spirits thronged the saloons, lined 
the bars and swarmed around the games. The 
quiet of the cabin and the monotony of the 
drift were left behind. Their hardy spirits 
panted for excitement as for new wine. Certain 
it was there would be much of it in Deadman 
before the day should close. 

At an early hour crowds began to pour in 
from Boulder Bar. There was a becoming dis- 
play of flags and bunting on all hands. The 
spot chosen for the contests was on a small level 
at the bend of the canyon, where the cool of the 
mountain lay on the air like a benediction. A 
large booth of green boughs had been erected, 
under which those to have part in the try-outs 
were seated. Facing this three-sided theater 
were the seats for the women, all filled at an 
early hour. From that quarter came ripples of 
laughter and ceaseless thrills of light talk. In 
the front sat Gene Truxton, between The Color 


150 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


and the Queen, her winsome face strong in its 
clear beauty. 

Borden swept them with a glance full of 
admiration, yet cool self-possession. Their eyes 
met. Borden’s were flashing with the spirit of 
contest; Gene’s were warm, and flying the ban- 
ners of encouragement. At the sight of the 
three women sitting together there was a buzz 
of comment. Swiftly it passed from man to 
man that this was the girl who had nursed the 
Queen back to life, and had given old Brookie 
a new chance, besides what she had done for 
The Color. 

Comment in undertone flowed copiously, and 
all took time to study the girl, who sat with 
quiet eyes watching the preparations for the 
coming struggle, her hands held by her com- 
panions. 

“ Ain’t that the girl that Old Lucky called a 
Nugget, down in the Bald Eagle saloon, the 
night Borden whipped Burke?” 

“You bet it is! That’s the time she went to 
get the Queen, when she was shot by Frenchie. 
Say, fellows, take a look at the girl — I mean 
the one who was shot, Minnie Moore — she looks 
different, eh?” Jack Harrington spoke with 
his usual dash, and a dozen miners agreed 
with him. 

“There’s more’n that can be said of her,” put 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


151 


in Laughing Brookie, introducing himself with 
his customary chuckle. “She's the gal what 
came up and nursed an old loafer like me back 
to life when I had begun to think I was goin' 
off shift There I was, 'ceptin' Trix — Trix is 
my dog, mister — and no one seemed to care 
whether old Brookie stopped his laughin' or not. 
Well, I say, there I was, just thinkin' — thinkin' 
about all sorts of things; wonderin' if the claim 
had paid for workin' it — when in came that gal 
with a smile that made me think o' my mother's. 
God bless her!" Brookie's voice broke, and he 
recovered himself with a laugh. 

“Oh, I had a good mother, boys, that I did! 
She taught me right, but I didn't take her 
advice, and here I am, an old loafer, rotted 
with whisky and livin' by the tricks of a dog. 
Well, as I was sayin', in walked that gal, lookin' 
like a wild rosebush in bloom, and she came 
right up to the bunk and said a lot o' things 
that made me feel that death was afraid of her, 
and that I'd have to get well. Why, think of it! 
She took my boots out from under my head and 
gave me a big, white pillar — hadn't put my head 
on one in thirty year — I was almost afraid of it. 
Then she hauled off those old blankets o' mine 
and put on some that looked like they'd been 
snowed, they was so white. Then she had Har- 
rington here give me a wash-up, the first in 


152 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


twenty years, 'ceptin' that time I fell in Feather 
River; and she put things on me, clean and soft, 
I didn't s'pose anybody but women wore, and I 
got them on yit. 

“Next, she went through that cabin! And 
I swear, boys, she found things I never saw 
before. Well, sir, it seemed she jist brought 
life and sunshine in with her, and in five days 
I was loafin' on a bench outside, and eatin' 
things she cooked, which I hain't the faintest 
notion what they was. ‘Well,' sez I to myself, 
‘that gal ain't like no gal I ever seed before in 
the mountains,' and I jest naturally called her 
an angel. ‘The Angel O' Deadman.' The name 
Old Lucky give to her is fair ; but mine's nigher 
the facts. 

“Why, look at her there between them two 
gals. The Color was always the right sort, but 
the Queen ... we all know that the Queen 
-has been gatherin' the primroses. But there 
she is, holdin' the Queen's hand 'zif she had 
never got her out'n a saloon. The Queen looks 
a sight different since she was shot. I tell ye, 
boys, a lot could be said about the Angel O' 
Deadman. 

“And she ain't a bit proud; no, sir. I’ll bet 
you the drinks that if I go over there and speak 
to her she will be glad to see me, and she'll 
shake with me !" Brookie looked a blanket 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


153 


challenge at the crowd, laughed, and walked to 
where Gene was sitting, her eyes raised to the 
green shoulders of the hill, where a shadow was 
growing less under a great rock. 

As the old man approached, she rose and 
gave him her hand with a frank smile. Borden 
saw the action and admired it. Brookie returned 
to his company triumphant. 

“What’d I tell ye, boys !” he chuckled, shoul- 
dering among them. 

“You gave her about the right name, 
Brookie,” commented Harrington, looking from 
the face of the Queen to the calm one beside it. 

“Might as well consider that recorded,” 
Brookie piped. 

“It’s a go!” from many voices. 

Thus the story of the strange girl of Dead- 
man took wings. Around the camp-fire of the 
packers the tale was rehearsed, while the won- 
dering men gazed into the flames. In the cabins, 
and at noon in the shaft, men leaned on their 
picks or sat upon their bunks to discuss the 
merits of the girl whose pure touch had seemed 
to come to them all. They had known the girl 
of the dance-hall, and they were, in their own 
way, glad for the change in her. Miners walked 
by her cabin to get a glimpse of her face, and 
in the night-time wan sisters of the ancient 
master of the Jews came for help and encour- 


154 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


agement. In his travels — dog at heels — B rookie 
had rehearsed the tale of his recovery and the 
change in the Queen in all the neighboring 
camps, till the Angel of Deadman came to be a 
hallowing something which charmed the hills 
with a haunting, deathless glory. Down the 
dim years to come, men would sit by other fire- 
sides and tell their children the story of the one 
who cast a charm over that long-lost time, 
while the embers would fall to ashes and the 
forms fade out of the flame. 

In the afternoon there were to be jumping, 
putting the shot, races and other features. But 
the morning had two events: putting up the 
weight and the drilling contest. The crowd 
surged in close and tense as Superintendent 
Truxton announced that all was ready. Burke, 
representing Deadman, stepped into the open. 
He was in condition. His blue flannel shirt was 
open at the throat, and the right sleeve was 
rolled up to the shoulder. Opposed to him was 
Big Mike, of Boulder Bar; Burke's equal in 
weight, and the winner in a hundred contests. 
This was their proud moment. Each had heard 
much of the other, and they had panted for a 
try-out. 

Both factions cheered wildly as their re- 
spective champions met and shook hands. Big 
Mike balanced the weight on his hand, and then 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


155 


the great arm went up under a hundred and 
fifty pounds. Who could beat it! Down came 
the thundering applause from the Boulder Bar 
crowd. Voices were heard calling for bets at 
two to one on Mike. This was promptly checked 
by Superintendent Truxton, who quoted the 
rules of the day. 

The gorilla stood smiling and confident. 
He knew what slept in his shoulder. There 
was a dragon, wide awake, in his forearm. The 
spirit of the neck shook him like a maned lion. 
He was happy. What he had lost by his defeat 
at the hands of Borden he would take back from 
this swaggering opponent. This was his hour 
of redemption, and he could not fail. Gene 
studied the giant, and her admiration grew for 
Borden. 

Turning half round as the weight — a stamp 
from a quartz-mill — was rolled toward him, 
Burke looked the crowd over with a smile, as 
if to ask, “Did you say something about Burke 
not being a man?” Then with an easy motion 
he lifted the weight several times from the 
ground. Those watching him saw his muscles 
swell under the test. Straightening up, he 
rubbed his hands together, tightened the roll at 
his shoulder, then, stooping like a bent tree, he 
set the weight upon the center of his hand, and, 
heaving like a bull, shoved it splendidly to full 


156 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


arm’s length above his head, held it there while 
he turned toward all parts of the crowd, then 
heaved it from him, the weight dropping at the 
rim of the Boulder Bar faction — it weighed two 
hundred pounds. The mountains rocked to the 
applause from all sides. 

The drilling contest came next. Borden and 
Kelly sat quietly watching while their opponents 
arranged their drills and syphon, which con- 
sisted of an oil-can turned upon its side and 
a rubber tube placed so water would run 
directly into the hole made by the drill. In this 
way the rock dust would be carried out. The 
drills lay in a fan-like spread close at hand, 
arranged according to their length. These 
would be traded in and out of the deepening 
hole. 

Borden measured Cornish Lightning with 
the eye of an expert. He matched his repu- 
tation. Tawny and wire-knit, he moved with 
perfect confidence in his ability to meet all 
comers. Frankly his eyes met Borden’s, and 
there was challenge in them. The mate of 
Cornish Lightning was second only to him. 
He stood, sure in the ability of his com- 
panion, smiling and co-operative. Back of 
this pair was a rosary of victories. It had 
been their swift-handed work which swept 
the honor of Deadman into the dust the year 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


157 


before. Much preparation had been made, 
but the result showed Deadman defeated by 
several inches. Now these victors of the 
hills stood smiling, confident, awaiting the 
word. 

Side by side, Borden and Kelly had seen the 
flag of the camp struck to these men; and that 
night they had talked it over in the cabin, agree- 
ing that they would take the time necessary for 
practice, and challenge them for another try-out. 
Then had followed wild drillings, in which they 
had behaved exactly as if a crowd stood about 
them and they were contending for the lost 
honor, till they boasted to each other that they 
could strike to the steel with their eyes shut. 
This regular practice had been interrupted only 
once, and a woman’s face was the disconcerting 
thing. 

' The four men shook hands, roughly frank, 
and clearly at peace with one another. The 
hour had come. The crowd forced the ropes 
to the last inch of space. Brookie laughed and 
swore by turns, as men stepped on the feet of 
his dog. Gene bent tensely forward, eager, 
excited. She loved contest — strength; she ad- 
mired strong men ; she worshiped courage. She 
saw the embedded boulder and the fan of drills 
— the can, waiting to gurgle its aid. With fasci- 
nation she watched Cornish Lightning take up 


158 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


a sledge and balance it airily in his hands; to 
him it was as the name he bore. 

She watched with quickened breath the other 
man kneel and set the drill, his hand on the 
syphon; saw her father, watch in hand, step 
forward. He was reminiscently and presently 
happy. Then her eyes went to Borden. He 
stood with folded arms, as did Kelly. Both 
men were dressed in dark pantaloons and soft 
white shirts, with the sleeves cut away at the 
elbows. Borden turned and looked at her, and 
she caught his glance and tried to flash, him 
encouragement. His dark hair lay in tumult 
over his head, and his arms showed pink-white 
where she could see the skin. The joy of con- 
test was on him, and he looked godlike in his 
fitness. 

The crowd tensed to silence. It is only the 
cheaper moods which permit of words. Then 
came the one word: 

“Ready?” 

“Time!” 

The sledge smashed the drill, and before 
the minute closed three inches of hole had been 
made in the rock. From his corner Borden 
watched the work of the men. It was perfect, 
if they could hold the pace. They worked 
together like parts of a machine. They even 
chatted of some matter . . . not a blow missed, 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


159 


and the “chuck-chuck” of the drill was like the 
time in music. The steel teeth bit deep. Up 
and down they changed from holding to strik- 
ing. Bright beads appeared on their faces, and 
from the overwrought crowd came such things 
as: “Wild wings !” “Look out for the Chinks!” 
“Don’t let your drill drop through!” 

Borden watched his opponents with glance 
candor-keen. Two things he noted: they were 
slightly overconfident, and they struck a little 
too light for the fiber of the rock. This stone 
yielded best when the drill was driven with titan 
force. This the others should have discovered. 

Like heartbeats the minutes passed. Deeper 
and deeper gnawed the drill. Out of the crowd 
came a deep-drawn breath. One minute was 
left. The last drill went into the fearfully deep 
hole with a chuck, and a shower of blows sang 
on the end of it. 

“Time!” Fifteen minutes of lightning, and 
the men stood back washed with sweat. Forty 
inches of crystals had been cut out. Could any 
two men beat that in such stones? The crowd 
went into pandemonium. All factions gave 
acknowledgment of the work. Boulder Bar 
surged in and lifted their heroes to their shoul- 
ders, bearing them in a circle around the booth ; 
then three cheers went up to the cliffs. 

“Do as I do,” Borden whispered to Kelly. 


160 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Not too light — hard! and strike so fast the 
devil can't count you — understand?" 

Kelly nodded, and they took their places. A 
wild cheer of encouragement went up from the 
Deadman faction. Laughing Brookie haw- 
hawed, and Old Lucky swore that Boulder Bar 
had been matched at last. The crowd became 
silent. Even the shuffling of feet ceased. 

“Is there anything in that rock you want 
forty inches below the surface?" Cornish Light- 
ning bantered at Borden. 

“No," was Borden's suggestive reply. 

Gene heard the banter and sent a look at 
the overconfident miner. But he was watch- 
ing Borden and did not see it. 

“Don't Jim look fine?" whispered The Color, 
delighted. The Irishman had just given her a 
glance and a smile. 

Gene turned from Borden to his companion. 
“He does seem in good condition for the test," 
she answered, wondering that any one could 
fail to see that Borden was a model for a 
sculptor. 

Gene had known men before desks, behind 
pulpits and between plow-handles. She had 
heard them charge one another's bulwarks with 
the cavalry of speech, and crumble down strong- 
holds of theories with the artillery of logic. But 
now she was seeing man in his elemental glory — 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


161 


matched and mated, limb to limb, chest to chest, 
muscle to muscle; and the new vision wrought 
in her a subtle change — made her partisan. 
Already she was quaking, lest her champion 
should not win. Her breast heaved, and her 
breathing was like one with a fever. Her eyes 
were astral with excitement, and her parted lips 
and carnation cheeks made her appear like a 
startled nymph listening to the pipings of love 
in the forest enchanted. 

Superintendent Truxton stepped to place. 
Gene saw the two men collect themselves with 
a tense motion, and wait. 

“Ready?” The sledge in Borden’s hand 
floated to place. 

“Time!” 

The first blow came feeling its way to the 
drill-head with a pattern-setting movement. 
Then the speed gradually increased till the sing- 
ing sledge formed a glittering bow in the air and 
the smitten steel streamed fire. 

“Give it h — 1!” yelled a partisan for Dead- 
man, who was promptly silenced by Jack Har- 
rington, who never got beyond his knowledge 
of the presence of women. 

Old Lucky saw fit to pass a remark as well: 

“Shut up your yap ! Don’t you suppose Paul 
Borden and Jim Kelly know enough to do that 
without you tellin’ ’em?” 


162 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Purty work! Purty work!” came from the 
crowd, as the blows streamed precisely on the 
whirling drill, the chuck of which was as the 
regularity of a clock. 

Never had the crowd seen such physical 
endurance, such lightning strokes. It was a 
revelation. The two men conserved every ounce 
of their energy. Nor were words spoken be- 
tween them. They became a perfect whirlwind 
of blows, every one of which sent the drill with 
a crunching sound deeper into the gored rock. 
Up and down, with the regularity of a swift 
shaft, they changed from striker to turner — 
from turner to striker. 

Borden had figured it all out as he sat 
watching from his corner, and he struck the 
blow that would give the steel the greatest bite. 
Experienced miners were quick to see this, and 
began to impart their discovery by grins and 
nods at their companions. Chesty and full, 
Brookie's laugh rolled over the crowd, and 
was answered by a cheer which startled an 
eagle from a crag a half-mile above. Cornish 
Lightning leaned forward: 

“God! Matched at last!” he exclaimed. 

Sweat streamed from the bodies of the two 
men. Their shirts were as if dipped in a spring. 
Drops like rain fell out of their hair, but there 
was no lessening of the strokes, and the tops of 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


163 


the drills smoked with friction heat. Excite- 
ment thrilled through the crowd. Men leaned 
like trees in a wind. Faster, if possible, fell the 
sledges; in and out came the drills with a sure- 
ness which astonished all who saw it. Through 
this crash of metal on metal rarig the voice of 
Superintendent Truxton calling the time. 

Gene felt her own blood bounding through 
her. Intensely she wished that Borden and 
Kelly might win. Just why she had become 
so partisan she could not have said. After all, 
reason is but the thermometer indicating the 
temperatures of the soul. Gene Truxton was 
logical enough. It had been one of her best 
qualities of mind that she could bring every- 
thing to a sane test. But the highest knowledge 
is the intuitive, and corelated to this is the 
sub-conscious. Love, longing, repulsion are 
motive forces which stir reason with a feathery 
wing where it sleeps at the end of the way. 
Reason is a fact-monger, putting the truths of 
being into the archives of the spirit. It was 
enough just now for Gene Truxton to know 
that she wished victory for Deadman very 
much, and that it would be sweet, that thunder 
of applause which hung at the lip of the crowd. 

One minute and a half of exertion remained 
for each man. Already their veins stood out 
like whipcord and their muscles as knotted 


164 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


ropes. Men gulped and waited for the one false 
stroke, the one broken drill, or erratic sledge 
turning in tired hands, but they saw them not. 
Grim and silent the two men fought on, sending 
the drill song high and clear as it ate its way 
towards the undersoil and — victory. Quick and 
sure Borden changed the last drill but one, 
while Kelly fought its head like a madman. 
Time was called for the last change. Borden 
struck his first blow as Kelly reached the drill. 
Then followed a sleet of blows, a storm of 
energy. The crowd girded itself. The psychol- 
ogy of it fused into one great fact — Deadman 
would win. Expression followed — came as a 
cloudburst: “Hurrah for Deadman! Hurrah! 
Hurrah !” 

Gene could have joined in the shout; oh, 
that she might! 

“Send her through, old man, send her 
through !” 

But Borden did not need the urging, for 
with all his strength he was straining to pene- 
trate the rock. Fifteen seconds were left him — 
twenty blows. Could he do it? Already the 
first ripple of the coming crash, the first rumble 
of the thunder-clap, broke from the edge of the 
crowd. Then came a dull, toneless sound, and 
the drill shot from sight, followed by the sledge, 
which struck a cloud of powdered rock from the 


THE SONG OF THE STEEL 


165 


surface of the boulder — the stone had been 
pierced. 

“Time!” shouted Superintendent Truxton, 
and Borden stood straight, the sledge floating 
to a ready position. Deadman had won by a 
known eight inches. The storm broke. There 
was a whirl of surging forms, and Gene found 
herself standing, with The Color dancing about 
her declaring the skill and success of James 
Kelly. 

Borden stood radiating physical force, his 
clear skin streaming sweat and his matted hair 
gathered in tumult over his head. No woman 
could be true to her sex and not glory in such 
strength and fitness, and Gene Truxton was a 
true woman, made for love — love at birth had 
kissed her lips, her eyes and forehead, and dedi- 
cated her to pure passion, uttering a prophecy 
over her bright hair, which always reminded 
Borden of the sun on brown leaves. He turned 
as if drawn to her and their eyes met. His 
were full of banked fires and asking; hers were 
alight with admiration. In that instant the 
crowd surged in, swept both men from their 
feet, and bore them away like drift on a moun- 
tain river. 

From the scene of the contest, Gene walked 
home through the scented woods, in her heart 
a delicious pain. That night, after the Queen 


166 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


had sunk into a restful slumber, Gene lay awake 
watching the fretted moonlight hang the pines 
with lace. Deep things had come to her for 
weighing — things that she could not understand. 
Misty paths wound away before her. To what 
enchanted land they led she could not even 
guess. At last sleep came to her, but not till 
she had clearly settled upon her course of action. 
This had evidently cost something, for tears 
hung upon her lashes. 


XI 


THE LAKE OF SEVEN MOONS 

I T will be perfectly delightful, and don’t you 
dare refuse!” The Color threw her arms 
about Gene’s neck impulsively. “There won’t 
be just we two. Minnie will go — won’t you, 
Minnie?” The Queen nodded her willingness. 
“There! And a lot of the mine-owners will take 
their wives. But I won’t go one step, unless 
you do!” 

The tone of the girl’s voice indicated that 
Gene Truxton was inclined to reckon herself 
out of the party which was forming for the 
upper valley, with its blue lakes and wading 
islands, nestling like parts of a broken mirror 
under the white cliffs. 

Gene did not reply at once, but sat with a 
pensive light in her eyes, which were lifted to 
the crumpled ranges beyond. She was thinking 
— thinking the mystery thoughts of a woman’s 
soul, while fancy wove strange fabrics for her 
heart. 

With a little start she became conscious of 
the importunity of the girl beside her. 

167 


168 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Why, Miss Truxton, what have you been 
looking at? One would think you had been 
watching angels.” The Color looked deep into 
the eyes raised to hers. The Queen rose and 
went to the window, where she stood for a time 
looking down on the sprawl of the unconform- 
ing camp and the rough honesty of the cabins. 
With a little sigh she left the window and came 
to Gene’s side, who seemed too much occupied 
with her own thoughts to formulate an answer 
to The Color. Without a word Minnie moved 
her hand under the bright cloud of her hair, 
stealing it around the soft curve of Gene’s neck, 
and stood stroking the firm, warm flesh, while 
her own eyes grew misty. 

Suddenly the Queen grew tense. Stooping, 
she whispered something which none but Gene 
could hear. When she stood erect once more, 
The Color saw that a change had come to her — 
she was different. Where a moment before 
there had been pensiveness, there was now vic- 
tory. On her forehead had settled the rarest of 
crowns— the halo of unselfishness and gratitude. 

It worked out as The Color desired. In fact, 
that impulsive young woman was in the habit of 
having her way, whether it was contending with 
old Sluicy over his habits or the owner of the 
Bald Eagle for supplying him with liquor. Yet, 
even The Color would admit that this was the duel 


THE LAKE OF SEVEN MOONS 169 


of her life, but she obtained the promise at last. 

It was the time of full moon, and the deer 
fed throughout the night. The mountain land 
was deep in green. Aspen and balm whispered 
together in woodland mystery over the streams. 
High on the white cliffs the wild goats were at 
play, and shambling bear came down to the 
cabbage thickets in the canyons. The blue 
swoon of summer had settled on the hills, mak- 
ing them remote, elusive. 

It was the season for rest, for love and 
dreams, and Gene finally entered into the plans 
for a week at the lakes with considerable spirit. 
The Color was delighted and the Queen acquies- 
cent. She had expressed herself as willing to 
remain at the cabin, if her presence would cause 
any comment among the campers. To this Gene 
had emphatically objected, declaring that if the 
Queen was not one of the number, on terms of 
perfect equality, then she would refuse to go. 
Good eyes had Minnie Moore, *fiow cleared of 
the bale-fires of sin, but never did they shine 
with so rare a light as now; and Gene remem- 
bered it through all the heartful days after- 
wards. Remembered it, when far mists lay on 
the hills and lone blue pines. 

The party consisted of several mine-owners 
with their families; a half-dozen promoters, 
their wives and friends; with gay, flirting Jack 


170 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Harrington, debonair and single, the king of 
Vagabondia, and wind-jammer around a hun- 
dred horns. Over the Seven Seas he had come 
sailing to the last frontier. Bohemian to the 
core, he moved, pole and center, among his kind, 
holding by his dash and self-conceit these cir- 
cling moons, who influenced him only to raise 
and lower the tides of his soul when good 
Burgundy helped in the pull. Travel-chipped, 
he dropped with equal grace the compliment or 
the challenge. His slim fingers had waked the 
string under Italian moons, when the nightin- 
gales mourned in the olive groves and the 
gondoliers chanted on the bay. There was 
brown on his cheek, from the Trades, and in 
his eyes passion, stirred by the dark orbs of 
maids in Arabian woods. Such Sherines had 
looked upon him, flooded him with the shadowy 
fire of their glances, leaving him the child of 
vanity and a false conception of woman. Such 
was Jack Harrington, who, out of a whim, had 
concluded to make one of the party. As is the 
custom with his stamp, he learned from the 
casting of dice all the facts he considered worth 
knowing. In this way he decided his changes, 
the possibility of success in his latest love ven- 
ture, the chance for foul weather which some- 
times came. Opinions which are based on 
license, or are the product of liberty in moral 


THE LAKE OF SEVEN MOONS 171 


things, are always subject to sudden and sur- 
prising revelations. All such go down, soon or 
late, toppling tower and reeling wall. Jack 
Harrington had made place for no reverses; 
for, from the myrrh groves of Attica to the 
slumbrous cocoa isles, women had wept him 
their truant fate, and had wrung their hands 
while his ship spread her white wings like a 
bird to waft him to other shores. 

Gene had conceived the plan of taking the 
overworked Mrs. Sluicy with her, and, to make 
this possible, had arranged with another woman 
to care for the boarders while she was away. 
The frayed dresses were laid aside and com- 
fortable gowns procured. The Color laughed and 
cried by turns at the good fortune of her adopted 
mother, filling all moods with outbursts of grati- 
tude for the one who had made all this possible. 

“Oh, it’s going to be splendid — glorious!” 
The Color exclaimed, using the best adjectives 
she knew. “Why, think of it! Jim has agreed 
to go, for he says I would get drowned in the 
lake sure if he were not there to take care of 
me; and your father has asked Borden to go. 
Oh, it will be jolly — grand!” 

The Color ceased talking to kiss Gene, whom 
she considered the embodiment of all that was 
worthy and good. 

“There’s lots of fish in the lakes, and a 


172 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


floating island — think of that. It has trees on 
it, and blows over the water. Jim says that a 
snowslide carried a lot of timber down, and 
these finally got covered with earth, and then 
tiny things began to grow, and that's the way 
it was made. There’s lots of fire-pink and 
wind-flowers, and there’s wolves and wild things 
everywhere. The last time I was there some 
elk came down and splashed about in the edge 
of the lake, and there were funny kinds of 
tracks in the sand.” 

Gene drew the girl to her and kissed her 
forehead. 

“It must be a very lovely place, dear. Really, 
I think you would persuade one to visit the 
moon, cold as it is, if that were possible. I want 
to see the lakes by night, and to row over them 
under the stars.” 

“We will! There’s a boat there, and so 
many tiny nooks where one can run in. Oh, I’ll 
show you lots of things we don’t find in the 
books.” 

So it fell out that, as it pleased their haste 
or leisure, the different groups departed to the 
Lake of Moons. Superintendent Truxton en- 
tered into the affair with the fervency of one 
who has turned back to first things as the best 
of all — as they are. Memories of grass-grown 
trails, and fires long since washed out by the 


THE LAKE OF SEVEN MOONS 173 


rain, kindled him with enthusiasm. Out of the 
camp-fire would come forms known in the old 
days; and there would be the sound of voices 
in the pines, and the echo of steps in the wind 
— steps which had faltered from the trail. 

Gene saw to it that her tent was pitched 
aside from the main company, for she loved 
quiet. She had brought with her some favorite 
authors and wished to have time for them. Had 
not Childe Harold loved the lakes? 

Borden and Kelly made a booth in a trim 
angle of the wood, where the hemlocks stood 
tall and whispery on every side. Farther up the 
lake, and close to those who require the zest of 
fervent associations in order to be happy, Jack 
Harrington built his bowery court, unpacked 
his instruments, and prepared for the carnival. 
He had been at great trouble in getting his be- 
longings over the trails, and it had been accom- 
plished by dint of perseverance, and the relash- 
ing of many ropes, and the straightening of turn- 
ing packs. Yet, in all his misfortunes, the globe- 
trotter had not lost his temper, nor permitted 
the packers to indulge their usual profanity. 

By the time the peaks were tipped with the 
last pencils of day to carnation, the different 
camps were arranged, and out of the twilight 
came the twinkle of leaping fires and the far-off 
sound of voices. 


XII 


THE GROWTH OF A DREAM 

B ORDEN had regretted that the surge of the 
crowd had prevented him from getting a 
near look into Gene Truxton’s eyes the day of 
the contest. He wished to know what might 
have been written there for his reading. 

It had seemed that she flashed him strength 
and encouragement. He had felt it, and it had 
helped him win. He could not be mistaken in 
this. It had thrilled to the core of him. It 
would have been reward enough, if he could 
have felt her hand in his for an instant. 

From day to day the power of her person- 
ality deepened upon him. Her eyes, dream- 
gloomed, haunted him constantly with their fath- 
omless kindness and wonder. He recalled clear- 
ly the sensitiveness which played at the curves 
of her lips — lips the god of love had formed 
at birth and dedicated to his own chaste moods. 
His soul was becoming mixed with hers. Slow- 
ly, certainly, this was a fact — the greatest 
fact of his life — he wanted her passionately, 
wildly. With this consciousness came a wish to 

174 


THE GROWTH OF A DREAM 175 


serve — to please her. If only he might stand 
between her and danger, might shield her from 
harm, that would be proof. Wounds received 
in such a way would be as the healing of a 
broken bone. 

Gradually a mellow mood came upon him. 
Once when Jim was gone he sat down and made 
two lists which represented his life. Candidly 
he made note of every fault, and severely he 
subjected himself to his own moral overhauling. 
To the last tittle he wrote all his delinquencies, 
bringing them out in their dark lines against 
the snowy character of Gene Truxton. In oppo- 
sition to this he made note of what he found to 
commend in himself. His candor had made a 
vast difference in the two lists; one was quite 
long, the other very short. He had taken him- 
self to his own threshing-floor for sifting. Be- 
ginning at the smallest faults, he renounced 
them all with a decided click of his jaw. 

The nights slipped past, but Borden did not 
appear at the Bald Eagle. Old Lucky wondered, 
and wished for his regular drinks. The barkeep 
made inquiries, and the girls in the dance-halls 
asked questions. Jim coaxed his partner in vain 
to go to the place. Miners asked for the vol- 
canic man who led them like a blizzard through 
melee and free-for-all. But gradually the 
change was accepted and the reason asked no 


176 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


more; so the shuffle of feet wore out the night 
with Borden absent. Coming home, Jim would 
find his partner absorbed in books covering 
various subjects which go with good breeding 
and general knowledge. Next Borden refused 
to deal the deck over the rough table with his 
partner, and Jim burst into true Hibernian 
choler at this, to him, fanatical prohibition. 
But Borden went on quietly, disregarding the 
epithets heaped upon him by the half-admiring 
Kelly. 

From somewhere — Jim never could trace it 
out — Borden secured a copy of the Bible, and 
began a desperate struggle with the profound 
things in that book. Jim watched this in utter 
astonishment. At first his mood was that of 
banter, his wit ringing through all the diction- 
ary of happy applications of sarcasm, with an 
endless sprinkling of references to monks and 
holy orders. By turns Borden was called par- 
son, prelate or doctor, as the whim might be 
with the Irishman. 

But Borden met all this with a good-natured 
smile. One thing greatly surprised him — it had 
been easy to do this. With a movement of his 
will he had changed. It was easy; why did not 
all men assert themselves ? Thus the time 
passed. When Jim talked of the wild times 
down Bald Eagle way, Borden remained quiet. 


THE GROWTH OF A DREAM 1 77 


When he sat in the corner of the cabin and sang 
the old songs over, Borden would lay aside the 
meshes of Leviticus, or the divine flights of 
John,- to listen, while the fire smouldered out on 
the hearth and the spruce back-logs became 
heaps of gray. 

For the first time, Jim brought liquor to the 
cabin, making much ado about the quality, and 
insisting that Borden share the luxury. But 
the portion urged upon his companion went 
sputtering over the embers. After this Jim 
sat staring into the fire, till the calling of the 
ground-owls told him that it was time to get 
into his bunk. 

Kelly had another cause for complaint : 
Borden had quit the use of tobacco, and the 
companionable Irishman felt the loneliness of 
solitary indulgence keenly. But that which 
topped the structure of his partner’s unreason- 
ableness with a gargoyle of unendurable ugli- 
ness was the quietly expressed determination 
to attend church occasionally, uttered in Bor- 
den’s most decisive way. Jim exploded at this. 

"By the Nine Gods of the Romans, Borden! 
what do you mean? Haven’t I heard you say 
eleven hundred times that you despised that 
mut; and here you are, headed for the sanc- 
tuary. Confound it, man, wake up!” 

"Through, Jim?” Borden looked his part- 


178 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


ner over as he might a stranger, at the same 
time placing a pan of water on the coals to 
heat. 

“Through! I haven’t begun on you yet. 
Kill my luck! but I’d rather hear old Sluicy 
sing The Jolly Rovers’ with a bad cold, and helm 
hard to larboard, than listen to that gilly speak 
his piece.” 

“A man might hear worse things than what 
that fellow has to say,” Borden answered dog- 
gedly. “Anyway, he don’t tell a man to go and 
get drunk, and that beats the other thing. 
Think I’ll loaf down there when the notion 
strikes me; so, we’ll call that settled.” 

Nevertheless, Borden got little satisfaction 
from the knowledge that the missionary and 
Jack Harrington were among the company 
departing for the lakes ; the one profuse in 
shallow mannerisms, and the other out to play 
the cavalier on a floor washed clean with stars. 
Such things belonged in courts, where charts 
for morals were not required. 

This bubble from the Seven Seas was hand- 
some; Borden knew that. He knew, also, that 
he had ways which were exceeding pleasing to 
women. That was a devilish charm which 
haunted his dark face, and Borden wished that 
this member of the party had seen fit to stay 
at the camp. 


THE GROWTH OF A DREAM 179 


“I’ll see her every day,” he thought, when 
he accepted the invitation to go with the 
campers. “They shall not monopolize her. I 
have much to tell her, and it may be she will 
want to listen. She ought to know what he is, 
and Fll tell her if he comes bothering around; 
and he will, for that’s Jack Harrington. He 
could no more keep away from such a girl than 
he could jump across the lake. But if he comes 
any of his fine tricks, I’ll chuck him down the 
bank.” Borden’s mood was berserker. 

He sat down to adjust Gene Truxton and 
Jack Harrington for the next week. The out- 
look was not to his liking. But he would go 
and take a seat at the game. He had always 
preferred a big stake, and this promised to be 
the limit. Yet, for once he did not relish the 
element of chance which attended the try-out, 
for in the elusive eyes of Gene Truxton he had 
read only riddles — riddles he could not under- 
stand. 


XIII 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 

T HE vale of moons was ideal. 

From the far white cliffs to the lakes 
cupped in gray stone there brooded romance 
and dreams. High in soft, blue haze hung the 
pines; and smeared in the glades and hollows, 
aspens and grass. Through this realm walked 
Beauty, shod with sandals of gold. 

Gene watched the sun drop westward behind 
the range. Then the lengthening shadows 
splashed out from the great uplifts like seas of 
ink. With quickened breath, she saw the mar- 
velous purples gather above the banked murk 
on the mountains and the glow become less on 
the cliffs. But before the deeper night had 
fallen the moon mounted gloriously from the 
east. As the calling of the night-birds grew 
tender in the distance and the camp-fire died 
away, Gene slipped into the clasping dusk and 
was lost. 

Following a narrow path, cut with the sharp 
feet of deer, she came to a small opening, which 

skirted both the lake and the tents. She found 
180 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


181 


a seat on a fallen tree and sat down to indulge 
a thoughtful mood. From a glade stole the 
rustlings of aspens and the smell of bear 
cherry. Somewhere a tiny stream complained 
to its boulders. Beyond, interminably, rose the 
heave of ridge and peak. The night was 
written with the scripture of stars, and through 
it seeped the pallid spume of marshes. Far 
away, a wolf howled dismally. From a rim of 
broken cliffs an answer floated into the shadowy 
mesh and was lost. 

There Borden found her, sitting like the 
embodiment of beauty and romance. With an 
unrestrained motion he threw his hat on the 
ground, and sat down beside her. There was 
something strikingly insular about him which 
commanded her. He reminded her of a sword 
half drawn from its scabbard. She wondered 
a little when she remembered that she expected 
him to come. In fact, it seemed she had reached 
this spot by appointment. The clasping passion 
of the moonlight shut them in. They were 
subdued and thoughtful. 

Gene raised her eyes to the white ridges 
and cliffs, shattered as by cosmic sledging. 

“IBs a great, clean land,” she began, her 
face tender in the idealizing light. 

He turned toward her with an impulsive 
gesture. 


182 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


"Where everything should be clean.” There 
was suggestion in his voice. 

"There is witch-mist on the water, and the 
moon children are at play in the glades,” she 
evaded. 

"We talked of such things once before — do 
you remember?” 

"Yes; you said — ” 

"That it was my God. And it was then; 
the only one I had.” 

She looked at him intently. The night had 
laid its benedictions on his head. He looked 
the master he was, elemental and fire-wrought 
to the core. She knew this hour had been set 
flying toward them from eternity. On its 
mission of fateful issues it had come, unwearied 
and unhindered. The moon had agreed to rise 
upon it, and the lake to sigh its shore-long wel- 
come. Now it must be given chance to bear 
all with which it travailed. In another such 
hour she had fought it all to a definite con- 
clusion. It had been hard, very hard, and her 
heart beat hot and wild; but the tears which 
came at last were the evidence of mastery. 

If Borden had been asked, he doubtless 
would have thought himself quite able to ana- 
lyze his own feelings, though he was blind to 
the fact that the source of his aspirations for 
better things did not rise above the girl beside 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


183 


him; and that the Divine was given no higher 
place in his thought than before. God had 
always been a vague, impersonal idea; convey- 
ing the notion of vastness rather than the con- 
ception of a being infinitely tender and wise, 
and who could hate evil as utterly as he loved 
good. Such a conception as he had easily took 
shape under the soul form of the one who 
appealed to him as the highest embodiment of 
all that was good. Like a will-o’-the-wisp he 
had floated from swamp to swamp, resting at 
last, to his own satisfaction, at the feet of a 
god he could see and love. 

Gene, who was acting from a higher and 
clearer vision, knew the fatal consequences of his 
attitude. Sometime this castle of mist must 
fall crashing about his ears. It should not 
remain to work its deceptions by her consent. 
Hers was a great unselfishness. She wished 
most for his good. In this, her own feelings 
must sink to a subordinate place. The light in 
him was darkness, and he persisted in gathering 
his darkness from her. Still, the working out 
of this necessary revelation was one of pain to 
her; the nails of her cross mangled cruelly; the 
thorns which must touch her temples would be 
as the stinging of asps. There was risk, too; 
for had she not been the lone star in his night, 
which had brought him even to the nebulous 


184 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


conceptions which he had? To quench this 
might plunge him into utter blackness. Yet, he 
must know his mistake, at any cost. 

Slowly the words formed in her mind: “He 
saved others, himself he can not save.” Gene 
understood the truth of those words as never 
before. The cross still stood on the high ground 
of the heart, and that foundation forever took 
the form of a skull. The hour of her testing 
had come! She pressed her hand to her heart 
to still its wild beating. Beside her, strong and 
masterful, sat the man who, though he dreamed 
not of it, had kindled strange things in her 
soul. The mighty love within her would have 
exalted her to be lost in him, had she been less 
strong. It was her birthright, her supreme 
glory. In this way God had launched these 
strange ships from his creative hand. She 
turned away and prayed for mastery, know- 
ing that with all the dominant force of his 
tempest nature he would try to prevent the 
answer. 

“Have you found another ?” she asked, 
recalling herself. 

“I have — that is — I — have found — some- 
thing — I’m changed.” 

She nodded her understanding, and waited. 

“I had not thought of such things till — you 
— came. It was that night the Queen was shot. 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


185 


After that I knew there was something more 
than the trees and hills. ,, He turned toward 
her wistfully, but met no warmth. 

Gene had anticipated his climax, and was 
ready. Outwardly she was calm, but her breast 
heaved with smothering emotion, and her blood 
bounded riotously. 

“We may contribute to one another’s ad- 
vancement, as the streams nourish the laurel 
and the cherry, but at the end the tree must 
stand up against the storm alone.” 

“What storm?” 

The question caused her heart to grow 
heavy. He was blind, and the anointing which 
must open his eyes was to be the red blood of 
her own heart. 

“You will find there are tempests. Evil and 
Good are enemies to the end of the world. If 
I have helped you, I am glad. The sowing and 
the reaping go on forever. I, too, have been 
helped by others.” 

Borden stirred uneasily. There was little 
fellowship in her reply. 

“But the tree can not live without the 
water,” he argued. “Take that away and it 
will die.” 

“The greater trees grow by the general 
rain.” 

“But I am not general in anything; I am 


186 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


intensely specific. What I think I say, what 
I want I take, what I don’t want I let alone. 
Some things I need, others I don’t need — there 
you have it.” 

“But there comes a time when the life, like 
the sunshine, must pour itself out to all.” 

“But that don’t stop a habit or break a 
bottle,” he persisted. 

“On the other hand, that is the only way,” 
she answered quietly. 

“I’ve done some of that lately,” he com- 
municated with pride. 

“I am glad.” Gene spoke the truth. 

“It was not so hard. There is everything 
in will power, you understand.” 

“I would say there is everything in divine 
power.” 

Borden shrugged his shoulders, searching 
her face closely. 

“Perhaps; I don’t know.” 

“That is the lesson we must all learn.” 

“But I thought the aspen was to grow 
alone.” 

“Not utterly. There are the soil and the air 
and the sun. Yet, it builds its own fiber and 
faces its own storms. So must we do the right 
for its own sake. And, no matter what may 
be our portion, we must go on, devoted to the 
one idea: this is duty and I will do it, if for- 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


187 


saken by all. Can you measure up to that?’’ 

“I can do what I make up my mind to. I’ve 
quit going to the Bald Eagle, quit tobacco, quit 
swearing — except when I don’t think — and 
cards thrown in. And I’ve been reading the 
Bible; what do you think of that? Can’t report 
much headway, though, for it’s a tangle of the 
queerest things I ever saw. But it makes a 
fellow feel that he has been mean, to read it.” 

“Do you feel differently toward the mis- 
sionary? You know, love is the master thing.” 

He laughed in the old way. “I thought I 
was doing pretty well to tolerate him. You 
saw me at church last Sunday.” 

“And there was good in the message?” 

“Yes, a little.” 

“Even that is a matter of understanding. 
The loss of selfishness covers it all.” 

He looked at her mystified. What was this 
he was hearing? All his life he had been in a 
struggle to maintain himself, and now he was 
told to put others first. 

“I do not understand it. Everywhere, on 
the trail and in the tunnel, it has been a fight 
to hold one’s own. I’ve battled, fang and claw, 
like a wolf for a bone. I’ve battered down 
claim-jumpers at prospect holes with a shovel, 
and I’ve tumbled cheaters headlong from games. 
That has been the order of things. What was 


188 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


mine I took, or spoiled it for the other fellow. 
That has worked; it will still work.” 

“That is the law of self. It was the govern- 
ment of the cave and the forest path our first 
parents trod. But there is a higher law — the 
law of mercy. If one takes the coat, this law 
says, 'Give the cloak/ If we are asked to go a 
mile, we are to go two. When it is best, we 
must stand ready to give up what we hold 
dearest. Could you do that?” 

Instantly Borden made a personal applica- 
tion of this standard in the case of Gene Trux- 
ton. He had a quick vision of her eyes, alight 
with love, turned on some face, and her hand 
resting in another hand. The thought was 
maddening. Though she might never be his, 
he could not bring himself to agree to the loss. 
He devoured her loved form with a glance — a 
glance that seemed to cut the moonlight. Where 
she moved through the belt of his vision there 
was light, but darkness, deep and dense, was 
banked beyond that. 

“I could no more do that than I could lift 
this mountain!” he admitted, honestly. 

“But you have started well. You have given 
up much. But there is one other thing you 
must learn how to give — ” 

“What?” he interrupted. 

“Yourself!” 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


189 


“And see others take what belongs to me, 
and what I want?” 

“Not necessarily. But should the test come 
you would suffer loss rather than do wrong. 
Anyway, we must be different from those who 
are actuated by selfish motives alone. God is 
unselfish. He sends the clouds to pour out their 
fullness on the land, but they retain not one 
drop for themselves. The soil yields up its 
harvests, and the sea its fish, but they keep 
nothing back selfishly. The sun makes his 
many visits throughout the year, but though he 
pours out his wine on the world with prodigal 
abandon, not one drop does he retain for him- 
self. So do the rivers run for all mills, and the 
forests grow for all who need shade. The 
springs bubble like poetry from the earth for 
every thirst, and into this exalted sphere we 
must rise, if we are to know those emotions 
worthy of the soul.” 

He shook his head. “That is good, I can 
see that — see it as I do those peaks there, but 
Til have to work out the way to reach it.” 

He had permitted her to enter the throne- 
room of his soul, where only the Divine should 
ever come, and she sought for a way to lead 
him up where the morning was breaking on the 
hilltops of spirit exaltation. A sore wounding 
was prepared for them both. This was not 


190 


THE ANGEL O' DEADMAN 


easy. What would the end be? Policy coun- 
seled a course of compromise, but Truth sig- 
naled from the old, old way of thorns. With a 
sigh she put the thought from her. Did the 
path lead to peace? She could not tell. There 
was no other way. This man, who had set the 
wonder workers dancing in her heart, and who 
had thrilled her with moods which baffled her 
with their exquisite pain, had mistaken the love 
of woman for the love of God, and to refuse to 
shock him from his error would be to help 
deceive him. 

He was waiting for her to speak, when she 
turned toward him. As she studied his strong 
face, outlined against a mass of moonwashed 
laurel, something like pity welled in her heart. 
Fit as he was, he needed her, and, woman-like, 
she longed to go to his aid. But, no; it could 
not be. Gene felt the need of wisdom, and her 
lips moved in silent prayer. Out of the dusky 
immensity came the croon of strange mourners ; 
everywhere there is something that grieves. 
Her reply came in a low, clear voice. 

“The rule must apply to the entire life — 
more, the thing that lives. This is the law. 
Nature has her harmonies and her repulsions. 
There is a send in the sea which wages war 
with the shore. Set over against all the balms 
and wines are the nettles and poisons. Serpents 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


191 


coil in flowers; maladies set pirate sail on the 
air. Everywhere I see that harmony and peace 
are secured by classification. Life flows in 
channels. The great unity of the world is 
secured by separation. In the sea there are 
schools; on the land, families. There is another 
law; look at it. Everything has its part in the 
general upkeep of things. The wild rose is the 
mould of past years glorified into leaf and tint. 
The grass feeds the deer, the deer is food for 
us. Our nets sweep the sea, and we gather of 
the store. Kingdom takes from kingdom. The 
one above is nourished by the one below. The 
mineral reaches up to the vegetable; the vege- 
table up to the animal; the animal up to the 
spiritual. 

“The law of nature and the heart is that of 
vicarious suffering. Something always is in 
pain for something else. Love could operate 
by no other law. The mother weeps for her 
lost child. Love demands a gift — the gift of 
that which loves. It is the pine which casts its 
anchor in a rock which is able to stand up 
against the gale, and make the very winds that 
smite it carry its cones to far soils. Do you 
understand me? We find God only when we 
lose ourselves. Faith is costly; virtue is high- 
priced. Victory is the best we can do.” 

Gene searched his face to see if he had 


192 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


understood, and saw that his hunger for her 
had kept his eyes more or less holden. She 
had done what she could, and she rose to return 
to her tent. She had spoken beyond her own 
planning, words — swift words and deep — which 
he could not grasp. 

Borden rose also, and came to her side. 

“You have spoken profound things to-night, 
Miss Truxton; things it will take long days of 
schooling to understand — if I ever do. All this 
did not come to you in an hour. I grasp it as I 
might yon star. I lack the wings to rise to it.” 

“I must return to the tent; father and Aunt 
Ruth will think something has carried me off,” 
she laughed, shaking off the mood which had 
been upon her. 

As she spoke she turned from him. Borden 
was disappointed. She had said little of his 
achievements in reform. Rather, she had 
seemed to hold them as very light. He had 
expected to see her eyes fly banners of joy at 
the change in him. He turned from her and 
looked down on the lake. He felt, somehow, a 
vague loss which it was not easy to bear. In 
that moment Gene did not dare look at him. She 
knew he was there, strong, silent; his splendid 
brow knit with perplexity. She had tried to 
plant olives in his Gethsemane, but these would 
make the bloody sweat none the less real. 


WHAT THE PINES HEARD 


193 


The crystal night took them in a shining 
net, and under that another, shadowy but 
strong ; and they were meshed together and 
swung far out over dark ravines and haunted 
moorlands. From across the lake came the 
howl of the wolf, repeated in the long com- 
plaint. A stag whistled from the hill above 
them. In every glade there seemed to be a 
shrine, and the wonder-workers of moon and 
mist wrought their lordliest. In the leaping, 
hot heart of Gene Truxton there was another 
shrine, with its little knee-bench swept of all 
but the myrtle of pure desire, waiting for that 
wondrous knee which in the plan of God should 
bend thereon. 

“Will you go with me?” she asked, wishing 
to break the spell of silence. 

“Yes,” he replied, turning toward her. 

As they left the glade, the sound of laugh- 
ter, chesty and unrestrained, echoed up the 
lakeshore. Borden stopped abruptly. There 
was no mistaking it. 

“I think you are to have company. You 
will not need me. The path is quite plain, and 
the tent is just there.” For the briefest moment 
he stood looking at her as if to solve some 
riddle in his mind; then, stepping upon a fallen 
log, he sprang lightly over a growth of laurel 
and disappeared. 


WHERE THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP LEADS 

HE great dipper had turned over in the 



A sky before Jack Harrington and his 
friends left the Truxton camp. He had come 
for a purpose, and he had achieved it. Gene 
Truxton was to accompany him over the lake 
the following morning, in the first taking out 
of the boat. 

He had expected nothing else but that he 
would secure her promise; women had never 
refused him. The god of love had made him 
for trysts, and woman was the angel of his 
heaven. He congratulated himself for a truly 
irresistible fellow, and proudly classed his 
amours with those of Antony, and all the other 
burning lights of love. Dame Nature had asked 
for one who might truly interpret the nature 
feminine, and he, Jack Harrington, had been 
the answer. Gene Truxton was delighted at 
the compliment he had paid her. After her, 
there were others. God! that would make the 
outing worth while. 

Down the tumbled hills spilled the stream- 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


195 


in g sunshine. The glooms lifted from the 
canyon, and the wild things sought the thickets. 
The lake shone as if ready to burst into flame, 
and the forests seemed smothered in an ocean 
of warm gold. 

Borden went thoughtfully down to the edge 
of the water and threw himself on the pine 
grass under some young firs. There he lay 
watching the shadows go out of the hollows — 
watched till he saw Jack Harrington and Gene 
Truxton enter the boat and push out into the 
lake. A grim smile came to his lips; he had 
expected it; he knew Jack Harrington. 

As he watched them, a great rebellion was 
born within him. In that instant a door closed 
somewhere in his heart, and all behind it be- 
came utterly black. How gracefully the fellow 
could row. This was what Borden expected. 
After all, Gene Truxton had seen things to 
admire in him. He was handsome in his way, 
but of that variety which indicates self-conceit 
rather than moral strength. Borden’s hands 
would fit on his throat. He longed to place 
them there; to strangle the wit. As he grew 
angry the desire for tobacco returned, and his 
hand went mechanically to his pocket — and 
found it empty. Cheek by jowl with this came 
the old love of a fight, dominant and irresistible. 

Was it an accident that the boat turned 


196 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


down the shore toward his camp? No, by the 
fates! That was Jack Harrington’s way of 
emphasizing his victory. Borden’s brow 
clouded. Gene Truxton had not objected, evi- 
dently, and that meant that she, too, was willing 
that he might be wounded by this chip from the 
Seven Seas. He would take little of this from 
any man, and the young gallant best have a 
care. Borden rose and walked away. He 
would not remain where his rival could see him. 
Swinging up the trail, he reached camp in time 
to catch Harrington’s distant signal, as he 
whirled around a point of timber into the black- 
blue water beyond. 

Jim was singing lustily, his fine Irish voice 
rolling down the aisles of the forest. This 
morning he was rehearsing a bit of sad history 
from his own land, kept alive in the pleasing 
couplets of “The Rising of the Moon” : 

“Murmurs passed along the valley 
Like the banshee’s mournful croon, 

And a thousand blades were flashing 
At the rising of the moon.” 

Jim, in his happy way, guarded sacredly the 
traditions and prophecies of his people. Borden 
was bored by the song. He wished his partner 
would keep still. A storm was gathering in his 
soul. The bite of disappointment was keen ; 
longing ate with a cruel tooth. He stood for 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


197 


some moments watching the distant boat, his 
eyes mere slits, and his jaw set hard. The 
craft was scarcely moving now. The forest 
wall beyond made for it a shadowy privacy well 
suited to the occasion. The occupants seemed 
determined to enjoy the hour to the full. Slowly 
the boat drifted into the moist gloom of the tall 
woods and was lost from sight. As it disap- 
peared, the vision which had begun to dawn in 
Borden’s soul was darkened. For some time 
he stood calmly looking at the place where the 
boat passed from sight. Easily he could 
imagine what Harrington was saying, and the 
answering dream-meshes in the eyes of his com- 
panion. He pictured to himself her bright hair 
falling around her face in that winsome way 
it had. Just now she was leaning like a warm 
nymph over the boat’s edge, her fingers trailing 
in the water. The thought was fire. There 
at the other end of the boat sat Harrington, 
his eyes upon the face at which he was un- 
worthy to look. The thing was a saber- 
thrust. What right had such a man to look 
upon Gene Truxton? Ah, but she wished him 
to look upon her! An oath rose to Borden’s 
lips. 

“Got ahead of you, did he, Bord?” Jim 
asked, banteringly. “Ought to fix things up in 
time, along that line. I’ll bet a sluice-box that 


198 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


you never mentioned it to her. Just hung 
around and let that scamp walk right in and 
make the date under your very nose. You de- 
serve what Pat gave the drum, and Pm the man 
who can do it. Get me?” 

Borden made no reply, and to all appear- 
ances seemed not to have heard. He was as 
one who plans for himself a fair palace. He 
gathers his white stone, and shapes his foun- 
dation. Day by day he watches the clean walls 
grow, and fancy pictures the clinging of vines 
and the singing of birds around it. Then a 
sudden shock topples the fluted columns to the 
earth, and all is a shapeless ruin. Gene Trux- 
ton he had set on high in his soul. He had 
interpreted God by her. She was all that was 
good and beautiful. He never could think 
otherwise. But she was human. The touch of 
clay was on her garments; else why was she 
on the lake with Jack Harrington? Perhaps 
there was no God. Perhaps existence was a 
vast mistake, a jumble of cross-purposes. 

Meantime, Jim sang on merrily. He was 
busy arranging fishing tackle for a trip with 
The Color and Queen to a stream where the 
finny darters were abundant. Nothing was 
more to his liking, and he whistled and sang 
from very pleasure. 

For Borden the day promised only a stretch 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


199 


of gloomy thoughts and hunger of heart which 
would not be good to bear. He had entered his 
first great test, and he felt it lift him — bear 
him onward toward uncharted things. To the 
scrap-heap with his resolutions! What was left 
when the inspiration which had moved him to 
something better had become an agency to turn 
him back to savagery? For a time he strolled 
about camp, agitated and cast down, his brain 
swarming with evil thoughts. Then he plunged 
into the forest, and did not return till evening. 

As he drew near camp the sound of the 
Irishman’s voice, pitched high, reached him. 
Things were going well with Kelly. Borden 
felt something of resentment at his partner’s 
unconcern. He found him taking fried trout 
out of a skillet, and adding them to a pile which 
indicated abnormal appetites. Borden ate in 
silence. 

The moon rose early, for it was at the 
full. Almost with the fading of the tints from 
the peaks it came. Borden left camp with 
a deliberate step. He had wrought out his 
course in the hard thinking of the day, and he 
followed the tiny deer-path at a swift pace. 
Here and there he caught glimpses of the camp- 
fire toward which he was going. It would be 
very pleasant on the water at such an hour. 
Gene Truxton might have found things which 


200 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


interested her in Jack Harrington, but she was 
not weak; she had not promised him an evening 
on the lake; at least, not this evening. 

He found her walking over the white pebbles 
heaped along the shore, where the water broke 
with a laughter low and sweet. She turned 
toward him with the old smile. Borden felt 
half his resentment go out of him. 

“Were you expecting me?” he asked, 
eagerly. 

“I am not surprised that you came,” she 
answered. “Isn’t it beautiful! I feel as if I 
were walking the shore of some spirit lake in 
Paradise.” She raised her eyes to the vast star 
spaces above and stood looking at the burning 
points in silence. 

All about them there was peace — peace and 
a strange quiet, broken only by the gurgle of 
water among the stones. Beyond, ever end- 
lessly beyond, reached the passionate wilder- 
ness, its heart banked with smothered fire, and 
a call, a wild, passionate asking, beating through 
all the aisles of it. Yet, crystal clean though 
it was, Gene knew that somewhere, even here, 
wound the dim river of tears. 

“Are you tired of boating?” he asked, trying 
to keep out of his voice all tones of the reproach 
which he had felt. 

“There is no time like this to be on the 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


201 


water. See how the moon-sisters dance every- 
where.” 

He helped her into the boat and pushed out 
from shore. Borden turned the boat in another 
direction from the one it had taken in the morn- 
ing. His strokes were feverish and strong. 
The oars doubled as if to the breaking, and the 
boat flew like a swan over the water. 

Once more the test was upon her, and Gene 
Truxton knew that she would need to be strong. 
She saw that she had succeeded in deceiving 
him; that he misunderstood her. It had to be, 
and she must continue in the same course. 
Against her own rolled the power of his 
nature, dominant, masterful. Again she must 
turn him away, when by every law of her 
heart she wished to call him to her, that she 
might find rest in the vastness of his starving 
love. Borden watched her as he rowed. Her 
face was spirit-pure. Never did the moon fall 
upon such hair. The elusive, haunting beauty 
of her held him silent. He knew her soul was 
togaed in pure white. With this girl before 
him, there was no moon, no stars, no ascending 
mountains, no God. All he felt or knew was 
centered in her. With the thought came a 
cloud — a cloud which that morning had risen 
as a man’s hand — something might separate 
them; he might be forced from her presence. 


202 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


He almost rose from his seat, while the oars 
dripped in mid-air. It was as if the eyes of 
Jack Harrington were looking tantalizingly into 
his. With a smothered oath, he returned the 
stare. Then the mood passed and the picture 
faded from his mind. Borden recalled himself. 
He would be acting the fool if he did not have 
a care. 

Gene was kind, yet she hid herself in a 
reserve which kept him at a distance. She 
knew she could trust this man utterly, and 
she wished to make him feel that confi- 
dence, yet to guide him into the path where he 
might find his true self unfettered of all decep- 
tion. As they drifted through the odorous mist 
she felt no fear of him, no dread; only trust 
and the mastery of his love for her, which was 
asking tumultuously for hers, and to which her 
burning heart panted to respond with the 
answer, which would be herself. But higher 
interests called upon her for a generous self- 
denial. Silently she prayed with aching temples. 
Once more she prepared herself for sacrifice. 

‘Til take you where we can see the seven 
moons, if you wish,” he suggested, turning 
toward a rocky slope which rose abruptly from 
the edge of the lake. 

“Please do. I have thought there was some 
poetical reason for the name.” 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


203 


A moment later the boat touched the shore, 
and Borden stepped out, helping Gene to land. 
Together they climbed the craggy hillside. At 
the top he led her to a flat fragment of granite. 
When she was seated, he came close to her and 
leaned over the rock. Below them spread the 
glittering lake, forest-fenced, and cut with tiny 
bays. Beyond flickered the half-dozen camp- 
fires of the tenters. . 

“At a certain hour of the night, seven 
moons can be seen from this point. It is just 
about time now. It is caused by the forest and 
necks of land dividing the lake into almost 
seven lakes. You can see them now.” Borden 
pointed out the number of moons floating in the 
translucent water. In silence they looked upon 
the elfin multiplication ; watched till six of the 
luminous faces dimmed away under the deepen- 
ing shadows cast by forest and hill. 

It all seemed natural enough to Borden that 
he should be here with this woman, under the 
stars. The spell of her eyes, clear, yet shadowy 
as the lake below them, invited to confidence. 
He was thinking. Many questions rushed to his 
lips, some of them hot and desperate. Over and 
over again, he determined to say all that seethed 
within him, but as often it dissolved to nothing 
before the reserve which constantly disconcerted 
him. The restraint touched the darker chords 


204 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


of his soul, and he kindled with rebellion. Only 
that very morning, Jack Harrington had taken 
this woman over that same lake, in the boat he 
could see bobbing at tether a hundred feet 
below. All moods demand utterance, and Bor- 
den wished to remonstrate with her, to speak 
frankly. True to his nature, he began abruptly: 

“Did you enjoy your ride with Jack Har- 
rington this morning ?” He turned toward her 
as he spoke and their eyes met. 

“I always enjoy boating. Mr. Harrington 
is an excellent hand with the oars. It was 
delightful at that early hour.” 

Instantly he resolved to give her a correct 
outline of the character of the globe-trotter. 
He would set him before her as he was, and 
see what she would do. 

“But did you enjoy the Harrington features 
of it? How did that rascal impress you, any- 
way ?” Borden was finding it hard to keep 
from getting angry. 

“You call him a rascal. Really, I did not 
find him that. He treated me as a perfect 
gentleman, and he did not get angry. He was 
very nice.” 

“Nice!” Borden uttered the word through 
closed teeth. “Let me tell you about him, and 
then xe’ll see.” He waited for her to object, 
but she did not. 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


205 


“That fellow is a scamp, a rascal . . . just 
that. He is a trifler from the start. I think 
you should let him alone.” 

“What does he do that makes you speak of 
him in that way?” Gene’s voice was low and 
colorless. 

“Do! He’s up to everything. He’s a gen- 
eral hard one, and knows about as much of 
honor as a thief knows of honesty.” 

“These things are bad enough, I grant, but 
you have mentioned only those which are habit- 
ual to nearly all the men in these camps. You 
have told me that you do them yourself. If 
you think me improper for boating with Mr. 
Harrington by day, then what shall be said of 
crossing the lake with you under the moon?” 

Borden winced. Selfishness always sees 
itself the last object of criticism. 

“You say I think you improper. Not that. 
Rather, I look upon you as being the soul of 
propriety. But I thought you did not know 
. . . did not understand, and I wanted you to 
— that’s all. You should keep him where he 
belongs.” 

“And where is that?” 

“That? Why, on the other side of the lake 
— or in it. I have told you the facts.” 

“Do you wish me to apply the same rule to 
you, and for the same reason? Suppose Mr. 


206 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Harrington should see fit to tell me what he 
knows — or may know — of you; would you wish 
me to follow his suggestions if he advised me 
as you have? Sin is a black, horrible thing, and 
it can not be painted into respectability by one's 
own estimate of himself." 

“But I have abandoned those things," Bor- 
den protested. 

“Have you put them out of your life for 
good? Suppose a great test should come: 
suppose trial and loss mingle in your cup; what 
then ?" 

He hesitated before answering. 

“Yes, unless — that is — there might be cir- 
cumstances where I would forget everything. 
I'm built on a wild plan. I think the day of 
my birth must have been one of storm. But 
I’m honest, and I'm not low." 

“At our very best, God could find much 
fault with us. True humility does not invite 
inspection — rather, it seeks to exalt other and 
more worthy objects. Those are lofty standards 
which call upon us to forget our own and pro- 
mote the good of another, even when we lose 
by it." 

“Do you expect that of me?" he asked 
quietly. 

“Not I, but there's One who does." 

“That's too much for a whirlwind like me," 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


207 


he replied, a note of disappointment in his voice. 

“You can reach it,” she encouraged, leaning 
toward him, her glance eager. “You have 
strength and capacity. Where there is foun- 
dation for great sin, there is usually ability for 
as great righteousness.” Her eyes were wistful, 
but she veiled them under long lashes. 

He shook his head and answered in his 
blunt way: 

“Impossible! When I saw you with that 
fellow this morning the old fight devil got hold 
of me. I watched him turn down the lake 
toward my camp, and I understood. I wanted 
to throw him into the lake — I want to now.” 
The tone in his voice startled her. 

“That is not worthy of you,” she answered 
quietly. 

“You tell me I must give up; that I must 
add cloak to coat and go an extra mile. I was 
not thinking of that when I concluded to clean 
up a bit. I thought you understood just what 
the proper thing was, and now I find you riding 
over the lake with that frosted leaf, blown here 
from the frontiers of the world; and, when I 
tell you what he is, you make a comparison 
between us. What I want to know is: Will 
you apply that rule to yourself and keep him 
out of camp?” 

He had said it in his own way, and he stood 


208 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


doggedly, waiting for her to speak. Gene's 
glance swept over his strong outlines; the set, 
resolute face, with its firm chin and the eyes 
which always looked straight at every object. 
His hair fell over his head, and Gene had a 
vague feeling that she would like to straighten 
it by running her fingers through it. Every 
curve of him was a challenge — an invitation to 
battle. Inwardly, she compared him to the 
god of force. She had expected him to turn 
her rule against her, and with a heart full of 
hunger — a hunger which ate with a sharpened 
tooth — she kept her place in the false light. 
He was losing confidence in her, and that was 
necessary before he could have confidence in the 
proper things. By her own wounds she hoped 
for his healing. 

Of the unworthy motives which actuated 
him, Borden was utterly ignorant. In fact, he 
had considered himself exceedingly worthy in 
what he had done, and it had been a sore disap- 
pointment to him that Gene Truxton had not 
been more ardent in her congratulations. Evi- 
dently, she had set a very light value on what 
he had done for her sake. He was piqued, and 
his pride wounded. How could this woman, 
who had been boating with Jack Harrington, 
know the value of the best things? The mental 
question stabbed Borden like a dagger, for he 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


209 


had made her his standard. At this point of 
his thinking there entered in a contradiction. 
This girl was gloriously pure and worthy. It 
flashed from her eyes and shone in her face. 
There was about her features the asking of 
white flowers. How, then, could she admit an 
impropriety? He knit his brows darkly. 

Gene knew that before Borden could find 
the best things of life he must lose her . . . 
she must force him from her. But not for a 
moment must he understand what she was 
doing. He would misunderstand her; he mis- 
understood her now. The light in his eyes 
showed how keen his disappointment was. 
She did not answer his question immediately. 
She wished a clear issue between them, then 
the break would be without edges. 

“Tell me what you intend to do,” he insisted 
as she hesitated. 

“Why do you ask me to treat Mr. Harring- 
ton so? He may be all you say of him, but he 
treated me as a gentleman,, and I hardly see 
how I could be unkind without cause. Nothing 
but harm comes of ill treatment. Even when 
we have been wronged, we must be patient.” 

Her answer brought the climax she ex- 
pected. A notion that good women are often 
attracted to rascals, and which is more or less 
the belief of every man, possessed Borden at 


210 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


this moment. The cosmic jealousy which lies 
at the bottom of the male nature flamed in 
him. When he spoke, his words were as 
breaking steel. 

“Then I’m done! It’s all a lie — a cheap lie 
— what I had believed about this thing — and 
you !” 

There was such a weight of implication in 
his words that Gene almost cried out from pain. 
She knew he must doubt her, for her course led 
to that, but the necessity did not lessen the 
sting. When she answered him it was in words 
full of kind, but quiet, dignity. 

“Worthless indeed is that structure of faith 
founded upon so cheap a confidence. I hardly 
think you have a right to question my motives 
in treating Mr. Harrington as he treated me — 
properly. We did not quarrel, it gives me 
pleasure to say. Please row me back to the 
landing.” Almost in silence they went down 
the slope, entered the boat, and the next minute 
they were whirling over the dancing water, 
swift as a shadow. 

From far away came the wail of a cougar, 
the sound resembling the human voice under 
great stress. Out of a shallow a number of 
elk splashed, crashing the flags, and startling 
a floating cloud of wild fowl. At the land- 
ing he helped her out of the boat with a firm. 



6 4 


Please row me back to the landing 

















THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


211 


though gentle, hand. Turning into the trail, 
he left her with a brief “Good-night.” 

Borden was angry. He strode along with 
a reckless abandon which indicated his mood; 
nor did the notes of Kelly’s song which reached 
him cool his heat. The Irishman was always 
singing . . . what was there to sing about? 
Refusing to talk, Borden went to bed. The 
following morning he was up early. Through- 
out the day he said little, and spent the time 
thinking his own thoughts. 

If there is cosmic bitterness and cosmic joy, 
there is also elemental kindness to be found in 
noble natures. Borden was kind. After a time 
the first glow of his anger died out and he 
cursed himself for a fool. He wished to redeem 
himself from the rudeness of the night before; 
for he felt that Gene Truxton had good reason 
to consider him a cad and a bonehead. 

Stretched at full length under the tall pines, 
he lay listening to the sound in their tops. He 
wished for night, that he might put himself in 
a better light. No, he would not wait so long. 
Striding off to the other camp, he learned that 
the three women had gone with Kelly and 
Harrington to a trout stream for the day. He 
returned in a bitter mood. He was piqued, 
disappointed. Perhaps he had not been too 
severe, after all. Then came a feeling that he 


212 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


had humiliated himself. Nevertheless, when 
the sun had set he went back up the trail on 
the old quest. 

The twilight lay purple and tender over the 
vast wilderness. The last bleeding of the west 
turned the tall cliffs to fainter carnation. They 
were like the brows of terribly old men turned 
to far objects and dreams. 

Borden paused to watch the colors change 
on the hills. He seemed the heart-beat of the 
vast wilderness. A crane rose from the marge 
of the lake and flapped lazily to the farther 
shore. The actions of the bird seemed almost 
a protest ... an objection. The forest deep- 
ened to an indefinite blur. Something remote, 
something unattainable, brooded wide and 
haunting everywhere. The spell touched him 
like a tale of grief, and he wished for tears to 
ease the inner pain which he felt. A flight of 
mallards rose from an eddy and streamed away,, 
leaving queer lines on the ghostly water. Then 
the moon came up, a clear-faced glory above 
the hills, spilling the valley full of amber wine. 
The songs of the night singers began in the 
remote places, and from far up the mountain 
came the shrill challenge of a stag. 

Borden felt strangely oppressed. He seemed 
in the power of something that grieved. It 
was the ache primordial; the something which 


THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP 


213 


makes nature an irresistible power. Down the 
aspen aisles, through the larch vistas, at the 
skyline, wandered this elfin personality, watch- 
ing with witch-eyes all who pursued it. Out 
of the hemlock gloom there seemed the waving 
of a white hand. Over the spanned waters it 
danced, writing of love upon the tablets of the 
moon — love and pain. Picture her as you will, 
love her as you may, never will this burning 
siren quite lay her passionate head on your 
breast. Sometimes her cheek will seem to 
touch yours; sometimes she will hold her lips 
so close that you will feel their burning curves 
upon yours. But never is the caress quite true; 
never is the kiss fully given. 

Borden left the trail and made his way 
through the laurel toward the place where he 
had talked to Gene Truxton. As he neared the 
spot, a low, throbbing sound came to him and 
he paused abruptly to listen. Only one man in 
the hills could touch a string like that. Bor- 
den's face gathered darkness. Creeping for- 
ward, lest his step disturb them, he saw Jack 
Harrington seated where he had been, and 
Gene Truxton in her old place. The derelict 
was at his best, and he swept the instrument 
with a caressing hand, while his voice rose with 
the beating of the chords. In every note there 
was persuasive pleading. 


214 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


The girl sat with face slightly averted. In 
the flooding light she seemed like something 
sphere-born; an impersonation of beauty and 
charm. Once she looked toward where Borden 
stood, and he fancied that she knew he was 
there ; that her glance penetrated the snowy 
cloud of cherry flowers which screened him. 
The song finished, he heard her speak words 
of appreciation. The old anger surged up in 
Borden’s soul, relentless, masterful. 

“Curse him! I believe she is infatuated 
with him, after all,” he hissed through closed 
teeth. 

A determination to strangle the man caused 
Borden to take a step forward. Then he re- 
called himself. No, he would not do it. It 
would not change matters. Sometime he might, 
but not then. If she found pleasure in the 
company of this man, that was the end of it. 
Good resolutions to the winds ! There was 
nothing in any of it. Bah! he had been a fool 
and a weakling; now he would be a man. Noise- 
lessly he retraced his steps, the guitar notes 
dying out of the air. At the edge of the glade 
he stood still, raised his right hand high, as if 
renouncing something, and then went on, not 
knowing that a sad eye had seen him leave the 
path by the shore and enter the glade, and that 
tears blinded it afterwards. 


XV 


THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL 

T HERE was scarlet sin in the saloons and 
dance-halls of Deadman. Every night 
was purple with wantonness, and every day 
black with wickedness. Down the passes came 
the swarming thousands, and the siren hand 
reached out and drew them in. 

Old Lucky kept his place near the bar, wait- 
ing for a benevolent treater. Sluicy tipped and 
tilted through the maudlin pack, loud of song 
and wide of sweep. Burke, like a ghoulish lion, 
roared his challenges over the scattering crowd. 
Brookie put his dog through his latest trick 
and laughed accompaniment. But one zest had 
been lacking at the Bald Eagle for weeks — 
Borden. He was not there. Among his old 
friends there seemed to be something wrong. 
Lucky missed him in the line-up, which usually 
left him out. Sluicy found it hard to borrow 
enough to put the kick in his clogged veins. 

But the tension was relieved suddenly one 
night when Borden crashed through the swing- 
ing shutters, and with astonishing ease threw 

215 


216 


THE ANGEL O’ DEAD MAN 


the lanky farm of Old Lucky over the bar. A 
wild cheer welcomed the return of the Bohemian 
to his own Bohemia. 

“The hogwash is on me, boys. Line up!” 
he shouted, sending a piece of gold over the 
counter. The next moment the crash of glasses 
announced that internal deserts had been 
washed with that rain which makes for greater 
thirst 

Borden found himself the center of an 
appreciative group, mellow with liquor, and 
big with the animal. Like an ox, Burke heaved 
a path for himself through the crowd, and 
approached Borden with face berry-red. 

“Well, back again, sonny. I knew you’d 
come. Takes more’n a woman’s face to tie up 
a man. I was looking for you. Ha! ha!” 

The old, hard smile was on Borden’s lips. 

“I whipped you once, Burke, and I’ll do it 
again if you don’t leave that out,” he said, 
getting close. 

“That’s all right; that’s all right! We ain’t 
going to have any trouble, Borden. Didn’t 
mean any harm, you understand. But glad 
you’re back.” 

“You must leave out this woman business, 
then, or we may.” 

In the shock and crash of the saloon life, 
Borden liberated the spirit of bitterness which 


THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL 217 


surged within him. The soul of the jungle 
man was his now. Old dispensations of stone- 
age and mace came to life in his nature. A 
wild love of action was upon him. He wel- 
comed the fray as thirst a spring. For a time 
the sun of inspiration had floated through his 
sky; half hid in mist, it is true, but it had 
been there ; and its subduing influence had 
started strange growths in his heart. But this 
had gone down — gone crashing into a whirl of 
fog and storm. All the warmer currents which 
fancy had sent out came roaring back freighted 
with the wreckage of disappointment. Jealousy 
and hot suspicion joined hands in his brain, 
leading a wild rigadoon through the halls of 
his reason. 

No one had ever seen Borden so reckless 
before. Deep within him the horror-workers 
wrought green chaos in his blood. From fiber 
to fiber his insulted body rose in revolt. Bon- 
fires were kindled roaringly in his heart. He 
felt big sufficiencies upon him. From a man 
of the drift and the drill, he had suddenly 
become the king of Vagabondia; the glorious 
chieftain of all the clans of combat. A boiling 
desire to contend gripped him. 

Furiously the fiends worked the change in 
him. In desperate haste they wiped out the 
landmarks of his soul. Moral balancings came 


218 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


crumbling into heaps. Sober poises took to 
themselves unaccountable anarchies and went 
hot foot into the general destruction — the over- 
throw of a man. 

His money rolled down the bar. Again and 
again the sons^of Bacchus gulped from his cup. 
With animal-hot eye, he watched the guzzling 
line. It was not enough ; it was too tame. Why 
did not the breed put him to the test? They 
were not of his make, or they would show their 
hands. Well, he would make them, these spine- 
less gulpers. Springing upon a chair, he hurled 
challenges at the crowd. Any two, any three, 
any six! What were they waiting for? When 
they hesitated, he cursed them by all the gods 
he knew. 

As the storm gathered, Old Lucky grew 
restless. He had never seen Borden like that 
before. He had just glimpsed the dark face of 
Pierre at the door, his evil eye fixed on the 
elevated form of Borden. Crossing the room 
to where Borden stood hurling taunts at the 
crowd, Lucky touched his arm. 

“Better get down and come with me into 
the cool air, boy. This won’t do. Something 
will happen, sure.” 

Borden stepped down and peered into the 
old man’s face. 

“The devil’s loose in me to-night, Lucky; I 


THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL 219 


can feel him. I’m where I’d kill if there was 
a reason for it.” 

“What in tarnation has struck you? I 
never saw you in such a shape before. You’ll 
do something you’ll be sorry for if you don’t 
look out. I tell you, boy, it won’t do. There’s 
a place to stop.” 

Borden grew quiet, and his eyes showed 
that he was thinking. 

“I tried, Lucky; sure I did. You haven’t 
seen me here for weeks, have you? No. Well, 
there’s a reason why I’m back. What it is 
don’t matter, only there’s nothing in this thing 
we call the right. I think everything must come 
to the test of experience, and when it does and 
you find it false, there’s mighty little left. No, 
I’m done; my vacation’s over. Here is where I 
belong, and here I stay. Watch me, old man, 
and when you see me heading into something 
that might lead to the worst, just cut me out. 
Understand?” 

“I’ll sure do it, Borden, for you’re too good 
a cuss to be out huntin’ a slug or a knife, like 
this.” 

“Have you seen Jack Harrington, Lucky? 
I’m looking for him.” The question reached 
only the ear for which it was intended. 

’“No; why?” 

“Oh, nothing much, only I want to see 


220 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


him for a minute. Let me know if he comes 
in, will you?” 

“I sure will!” Lucky replied with his lips, 
but he could have added properly with his mind 
the word “not.” 

It was evident to the old man that some- 
thing had happened in which the gay Jack 
figured. It would be his aim to keep them 
apart, if possible. 

A whim to treat the other drinking-places 
right took possession of Borden. He would 
show them what it meant to be generous. 
These common shovel knights knew nothing of 
the spending qualities of a real gentleman. He 
would teach them the lesson. What was the 
use of having leases paying big returns if one 
did not use it largely? In clarion tones he 
announced that he intended to wash every bar 
in the camp with wine, and the crowd surged 
after him. 

“Bring my children home again,” bantered 
the bartender of the Bald Eagle. 

Old Lucky kept well to the front, close to 
Borden, as he told himself to see that he did 
not get into trouble. There is no doubt, how- 
ever, that Lucky had a long tooth for the 
mixtures which the different bars would set out 
with a fine eye for trade, and he looked well to 
securing his full share. 


THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL 221 


As the bellowing herd went down the street, 
Kelly pushed in close to Borden. 

“You’re making a blamed fool of yourself 
to-night, Borden. Keep this up and I’ll cut the 
blankets with you. I don’t mind a little fun, 
but you’re acting worse than a locoed horse. 
You’ve spent a hundred dollars now, and it 
ain’t ten o’clock.” 

“Wish some of these other fellows would 
come along with something like that; I’d have 
a reason to throw them into the street. But 
what are you preaching about ! When I wanted 
to do the square thing, you made all manner of 
fun of me. Don’t come around now with your 
anxiety for my money. I’ve lost more than 
that in this game. You’re a lucky dog, Jim. 
Everything comes your way. But there’s noth- 
ing for me but the worst. I’m built on that 
plan.” 

Jim turned away and went thoughtfully 
back to the cabin, where he lit the lamp and 
sat down to think. Perhaps he had been a 
fool, also. He was sorry that he had not 
encouraged his partner in his desire to be a 
better man. 

Borden fully redeemed his promise. Every 
bar in the camp foamed with liquor, and the 
dance-halls thrilled with the animal spirit 
which he took into them. At twelve of the 


222 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


night the pack was surging into the Bald Eagle 
for a closing orgy. Old Lucky had kept his 
place beside Borden. His poison-seasoned 
thews had reached a place in the process of 
dry rot where they yielded to no sudden flow of 
blood; therefore, it was said no man had seen 
him drunk. One thing was his always ... a 
deep-seated demand for liquor. 

In the dance-hall, Borden whirled in wild 
circles, shattering the sordid commercialism 
into something like gaiety, and creating a sensa- 
tion among the new arrivals, who stared at this 
tempest man in astonishment. 

“When you goin’ to bring the Queen back, 
Borden?” asked Fiddling Brown, lowering his 
violin, and wiping the sweat from between the 
thumb and front finger which gripped the neck. 

“You'll be an older rascal than you are now, 
Brown, before I do that. She’s doing well. 
Looks as clean as a lily, and, so far as I’m con- 
cerned, she don’t come back. I’d take the rest 
out, if I could.” 

“God! I miss the Queen!” Brown’s words 
were full of the negative which indicated that 
Borden’s moralizings had made no impression 
upon him. 

In the main room a game was in progress. 
Stakes went to the clouds, and men held their 
breaths. Disgusted, a player left the table, and 


THE SEAT OF THE SCORNFUL 223 


Borden took his place. Hours passed, while the 
green monsters played tricks in his brain. His 
wits became condor-keen. He won and lost, 
lost and won. The game closed in a free fight, 
which grew out of a charge of cheating which 
one who didn’t know him made against Borden. 
When it was over, he stood alone in the room. 
About him were broken chairs, and the tables 
with legs pointing at the ceiling. Cards and 
chips littered the floor, and here and there a 
hat showed that the men who had taken part 
in the melee had gone in great haste. Borden 
surveyed the wreckage and laughed. 

The gray of dawn was streaking the east 
as he left the Bald Eagle and took the path 
toward his cabin, in his pockets a double share 
of the winnings. 


XVI 


LAUGHING BROOKIE’S COMPLAINT 

G ENE was not surprised to hear of Borden's 
excess. In fact, she had expected just 
that. Though she grieved secretly, there was 
no outward sign. In the little powder cabin 
the lessons went on as usual, and down at the 
end of the hill the roar of the stamps ceased 
not, day nor night. 

The Queen watched her friend with eyes 
filled with wonder. There was something 
baffling about this woman with the glorious 
face and bright hair; something she could not 
fathom. 

The days passed, and Borden continued on 
his wild career. Sometimes, not often, Gene 
saw him on the trail, but his greetings were 
from a distance. She knew that he had come 
to doubt her. Once he had believed her per-< 
feet; now he looked upon her as one able to 
take interest in the unworthy. Still, her woman 
eyes read below this stormy surface, and her 
heart bled. Often, after these meetings, she 
would slip from the path into the aspen groves, 

224 


BROOKIE’S COMPLAINT 


225 


and there pour out her longings in prayer, while 
her eyes, blinded with hot tears, saw only the 
picture of a man transformed. 

Like overcharged nature, which finds relief 
in sweeping wind and roaring flood, Borden 
gave channel to his feelings. From The Color, 
Gene learned of his deepening excess. Not 
that Borden was over-bibulous, but that he 
swept others to the very vortex of sin. Each 
day Jim talked the matter over with The Color, 
who took her heartache to Gene, not knowing 
what the hearing of these tales caused her 
to feel. 

In all the swift rush of his torn soul there 
was one thing which to Gene was like the touch 
of cold water to a thirsty tongue: Borden kept 
the old landmark of his moral character where 
he had first placed it. Through melee and 
free-for-all fight, many of which he started him- 
self, he stormed with the light of battle upon 
him, but the painted sirens of the dance-halls 
waited for his coming in vain. Drink he did; 
not because he liked it, but because it turned the 
devil loose in him. In his stormy mood inaction 
was torture. In the tunnel he endured Kelly’s 
lectures in silence, his dark eyes blazing, while 
he struck violet fire from the drill-head, blow 
on blow. 

Days passed into weeks, but Borden relaxed 


226 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


not from the career upon which he was 
launched. He had concluded not to seek a 
meeting with Jack Harrington. That would be 
against his own independence in the matter. 
Sometimes, when stirred by the green demon, 
he would go from saloon to saloon to find the 
gay cavalier, but failed for the very simple, 
though excellent, reason, that the dashing gen- 
tleman kept clear of his path. When he had 
seen the derelict going to the Truxton cabin, it 
had brought forth smothered oaths, and a 
double measure of disorder in the Bald Eagle 
that night. Jim had come to look for the out- 
bursts which always followed these visits. 
Gene, also, saw the matter clearly, but held 
firmly to her way, and — waited. 

It was at this time that the factional lines 
began to be clearly defined. Pierre had not for- 
gotten, and subtly he drew the old element 
around him. With every twinge of his wounds 
he had registered a vow against Borden and all 
who had taken sides with him that day. The 
old lawlessness began to manifest itself. Lone 
Pass was the scene of many stage robberies. 
Packers and drivers came to know the stare of 
level revolvers by looking down their ominous 
throats. These, held heart-high, were the last 
argument in the hands of the agents. 

In Deadman and other camps, more grue- 


BROOKIE’S COMPLAINT 


227 


some evidences of the “gang” were to be found. 
A body with a gash in the throat, and the chip- 
munks playing over it, was one thing that bore 
witness. A feeling of fear and uncertainty took 
possession of the camp. Bearded men met in 
out-of-the-way places and discussed the danger. 
Something must be done at once. 

Meantime, Pierre, with the keen perception 
which is natural to one of his stamp, saw the 
trend of events clearly. When patience had 
been exhausted, wild work would follow, and the 
trees would grow strange fruit. He had seen 
this in other places, and he understood. It 
would not do for him to be caught napping; 
therefore, he attended meetings of protest and 
spoke savagely of the murderous practices. He 
claimed to have been the victim of several hold- 
ups, in which he lost much money. He even 
tried to treat Borden as if there had been no 
differences between them. From being a soli- 
tary at the bar, he became as reckless in his 
spendings as Borden himself. Slowly the sus- 
picion regarding him grew less, and men began 
to look elsewhere for the dragonish head of 
the monster which claimed regularly its toll of 
blood. 

The election drew on, and Pierre announced 
himself as candidate for sheriff of the com- 
munity. As the voters were to be found in the 


228 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


camps principally, and as these were in the grip 
of the Judas element, he hoped to win. It all 
turned out that way, for the wily Frenchman 
claimed an easy victory over his honest miner 
opponent. 

With the election of Pierre came a louder, 
more defiant note in all the saloons and dance- 
halls. A certain swagger appeared among those 
who had been modestly quiet before. Charac- 
ters which had kept in the background till now 
made loud announcement of themselves. There 
was one change, however; no more bodies were 
found in Deadman, though these ghastly relics 
were as numerous as ever in other towns and 
on the trails. Thus the summer passed, with 
the poisonous yeast of crime working an evil 
brew. 

Gene, with a great ache in her heart, and 
her eyes misty with unshed tears, went firmly 
on her way. If the hot pools which lie so close 
to the brain ever spilled over it was when none 
could see or know. Only once did her resolution 
give way. The Color had been rehearsing a 
night of unusually wild things at the Bald 
Eagle, in which Borden had been the leading 
spirit. Certain it was, he was fast drifting to 
the irreparable plunge of fixed evil. The 
thought had brought a misery to Gene’s heart 
which seemed to crush it; and, when the girl 


BROOKIE’S COMPLAINT 


229 


had stopped, touching her soft, young cheek 
under standingly to Gene’s, her strength had 
failed, and the two women wept their tears 
together. This was unusual, for Gene’s manner 
always had been one of calm cheerfulness. 

One day Gene received an unexpected call 
from Laughing Brookie. He first entertained 
her with all the latest tricks which he had 
taught his dog, before coming to the purpose of 
his visit. She let him get to it in his own way, 
and with many interruptions of laughter the 
old man covered the ground of their former 
conversation. Things were getting altogether 
too scarlet down Bald Eagle way. The devil 
was getting into the stew completely, and he 
would kick over the whole dish in his majesty’s 
good time. Brookie was concerned. Men are 
known by their proverbs, and by that test the 
old man had come of a tree which sent its roots 
deep into Puritanic soil ; howbeit, a soil well 
weeded of the cruder conceptions of right living. 
Something must be done for old, battered drills 
like himself. The saloon was a poor place to 
die in, and a worse place in which to live. It 
had been all a miserable mistake, but there had 
been no other place to go. If there were such 
a place, he, Laughing Brookie, would quit the 
whole thing clean. He had reached the end; 
he had enough of the whole proposition. But 


230 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


he’d ax her pardon for bothering her, for he 
didn’t suppose nothin’ could be done. 

Gene had been thinking rapidly while the 
old man went over the folly of his life, and the 
influences which had made him what he was. 
She raised her eyes and looked at him keenly. 

“If I can arrange a plan, will you help me, 
Brookie ?” 

“That I will, Miss; try me. Such old loafers 
as me and Sluicy and Old Lucky aught’a be 
gittin’ out’n the game, for one of these days 
we’re goin’ cash in all to onct.” 

Gene asked for a few days to work out her 
plans; then she consulted her father, who en- 
tered heartily into them. He agreed that she 
might draw on his account to a staggering sum, 
and he would take the responsibility of super- 
intending the matter, as far as possible. 

There was much curiosity among the bar- 
keeps and saloon-owners of the camp as to 
what the new enterprise might be. The men 
who cleaned out the long log building fronting 
squarely on Main Street knew only that the 
superintendent’s daughter was paying them to 
do it. Brookie kept the secret — and laughed. 

“That means something that will work 
against our business,” big Pat Sullivan had 
said to a fellow liquor-dealer, when discussing 
the matter over the bar, “and if it gets in my 


BROOKIE’S COMPLAINT 


231 


way — well, I'll set fire to the whole shooting- 
match, that's all.” 

When the place had been thoroughly cleaned, 
tables were brought in and shelves made for 
books. The great fireplace was prepared against 
winter. Cords of pitchy wood were piled at the 
rear. Cases for ore samples were made and 
put along the side. Plenty of comfortable 
chairs were brought in. By a system of piping, 
a drinking faucet was put in the building. 
Above this was a motto which read, “What 
God intended a man should drink." This was 
destined to give rise to many heated dis- 
cussions as to the relative virtues of water and 
alcohol, with much loss of temper. How- 
ever, Gene felt it would do good at least in 
suggesting the right thing. There was one 
point of comfort regarding this motto . . . they 
all practiced it. 

There was some discussion between Gene 
and her father as to what should be put over 
the door. In the ethical mind of Gene Truxton, 
“Soul's Rest" seemed the proper thing; but the 
mere suggestion of such a name set the super- 
intendent fuming. 

“Why, confound it, girl! If you put that 
up, you couldn't get a prospector in with a span 
of mules. That's too churchy. They'd expect 
to find a prayer-meeting in full blast. Forget 


232 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


it! Take something that will make them feel 
like they own the shebang — Miners’ Rest; that’s 
it, Miners’ Rest. There’s not one in a hundred 
of them who cares whether he has a soul or not, 
but they all get tired.” 

So the sign that went over the door of the 
new concern read, “Miners’ Rest — Welcome.” 
The venture was a success from the first. 
Brookie was made general manager and seer- 
after-things, and the confidence put a ring in his 
laugh that was good to hear. 


XVII 


THE GATHERING OF THE MIST 

T HERE were many callers at the Truxton 
cabin, but Borden came no more. That 
night by the lake the iron had entered his soul, 
and he held steadily on his way. 

Gene learned with secret joy that he was 
not drinking. After the first few weeks of 
setting the pace, he had spent his money wildly 
for others, but had refused to indulge person- 
ally. The melee and the stormy scenes of the 
animal nature he reveled in, and through them 
he went with the light of battle in his face; but 5 
the rest he put aside. 

It all had come as a withering disappoint- 
ment to Borden. He had felt the stir of ele- 
mental love, and he had responded with all his 
generous nature. Never before had a woman’s 
face seemed glorified, and all he knew of faith 
or God centered in Gene Truxton. When over 
his flowering dream fell the frost of doubt, it 
had left him alone in the midst of an unbear- 
able desolation. 

From his cabin door he watched the visits 


233 


234 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


of the gay Jack to the Truxton cabin with an 
inner wrath which ate deep. The first stormy 
outburst had passed, and he was in the habit of 
standing under the pines listening to the throb- 
bing of Harrington’s guitar much as one who 
hears from his cell the clatter of hammers 
which are building his scaffold. 

Slowly it came to him that he had been a 
fool; that he had been presumptuous. Why 
should Gene Truxton look upon him as any- 
thing but an ordinary drifter, without pedigree 
or warrant? The new thought was not pro- 
ductive of humility. After this his independ- 
ence came to full flower. While he could not 
blame her for her attitude toward him, yet he 
would not discount himself seriously. He, too, 
could stand isolated and unasking to the end of 
the world. Thus his moods succeeded each 
other. But neither the iron of his own will nor 
the wild nights at the Bald Eagle could wipe 
from his soul the fact that with a deathless 
hunger he longed for the girl who had entered 
and left his life so strangely. 

Lashed with conflicting feelings, he suffered 
on, seeking relief in the Berseker whirl of the 
downtown life. 

Gene Truxton had seen the way clearly, 
and she held firmly to it. Had she been 
selfish or less strong, she would have yielded 


THE GATHERING OF THE MIST 235 


the struggle in the interest of self. . This cost 
her many severe struggles. The stars knew 
strange things . . . white hands stretched to- 
ward them from the aspen glades, and a face 
set in that glory which is the chief charm of 
flowers, raised to their clear shining. 

Once they met under the pines. He was 
walking with his eyes on the ground. He did 
not see her until she was near, then he 
started and seemed about to speak. But he 
recalled himself, and, with a look which thrilled 
her, bowed with unconscious grace and moved 
away. Gene’s heart beat wildly as she watched 
him till he passed from sight. 

She had seen the sorrow in his features, 
leaving them almost tender. In that moment 
she longed to speak ... to tell him that he 
was misunderstanding her, and that she only 
wished the best for him. The very strength 
of him mastered her. In the cool of her own 
room she sat down to think. 

Soon after this, Gene had a call from 
Brookie, who told her of a youth who was 
tossing with fever in one of the huts on the 
hillside. Her name had become well known by 
camp-fire and trail, and those in pain looked for 
the coming of the strange girl, whose presence 
seemed to cheer them back to strength and 
courage. 


236 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


For many days the boy lay tossing in delir- 
ium. When the flame cooled and his eyes 
became clear, he saw a woman beside him, the 
beauty of whose face was bewildering. For 
hours he had watched in a troubled way, believ- 
ing her to be some creature from another 
sphere. Later, when his wits cleared, she had 
talked to him in a way which not only con- 
vinced him that she was altogether corporeal, 
but that she had a most astonishing way of 
stirring the heart to better things. 

The youth crept slowly back to health, but 
no word of his past life had escaped the closed 
lips, and Gene had asked no questions. All he 
said was, “You have saved my life. If ever I 
can repay the kindness, I will.” After this 
Gene had seen him with Borden, and felt sad 
lest the older man's influence prove to be bad. 

In this manner the days passed, and the 
veils of autumn, far-blown and faint, caught 
here and there on the banked foliage of maple 
and aspen. Later came the riot of bright hues, 
making the wilderness a painted pageantry, 
gaudy and bizarre. Out of the north came a 
subtle change. The wind bore it upon its wings, 
and the waters wrought it in ice-crystal at the 
ends of grass blades and protruding pebbles. 
Deep in the forest the wild things responded to 
the change, and altered their social ways. A 


THE GATHERING OF THE MIST 237 


weird, elfin life was sensed in the land. With 
branching antlers, the slate-blue stags took the 
trails, knights of the wild. Down the winding 
glades echoed their challenges, and in the coves 
they fought, as the men did in the Bald Eagle. 

Wolves hunted for the winter fat, their 
long cries startling the solitude. The frost lay 
white in the damp places in the morning, and 
the streams were like wine from the leaves 
which drifted in them. Out of the depths came 
a promise of sheeted hail and high winds. The 
pines lifted their voices in a higher key. From 
far excursions, the miners returned to silent 
cabin or shack for the winter. Because of this, 
the Bald Eagle felt a fiercer rush of its swift 
current, a greater pulsation of its coarse blood. 

Borden kept his old place at the head of 
disorder, fighting for the very joy of combat, 
and because the fires within him found an 
avenue of escape in such things. Shoulder to 
shoulder he and Burke went through melee and 
mob, and never did they come out vanquished. 

Among those who were strongly attached 
to Borden was the Ruby Kid. Many kindnesses 
and sundry talks behind closed doors had not 
been lost. Nor had the boy forgotten the words 
which Gene Truxton had spoken to him while 
he lay in the cabin on the slope. Borden had 
listened to his description of the girl as though 


238 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


she were a stranger to him, and had kept to the 
old subject when it was over. 

“Don't be a fool like me, Kid," he had said. 
“Quit it all completely. I'm a devil by nature, 
I guess, and have to go this way. But you 
don't. Do as I tell you, not as I do." 

The Kid understood, for he had talked with 
Kelly, though he made no reply. But Borden 
had reason to remember the fierce light in his 
eyes afterwards. 

The great crash of the factions came one 
midnight. Scarlet things had been done in the 
saloons of late, and many wanton murders 
stained the trails with horror. A gang of 
blood-letters and robbers was at work in the 
community. To many it was a certainty that 
Pierre was the head of this element, only using 
his office to shield him from suspicion. The 
Frenchman went heavily armed, his keen glance 
searching all faces. 

Silent as growth, the two elements augment- 
ed their strength. There was an instinctive 
movement among the clans for organization. 
No man felt safe. Those who had money 
formulated hard-luck stories, and buried their 
treasure. Then came the crash. It was the' 
reaction from one of those quiet times which 
is usually the forerunner of greater excess. 

From nightfall every bar in the camp had 


THE GATHERING OF THE MIST 239 


been crowded. Men swilled together like swine. 
Clatter of wheel and sputter of ball mingled 
with the slap of card and crash of glass. Over 
all was the snarl of the beast; the gutturals of 
the throat primordial. 

Through this Borden moved like the embodi- 
ment of disorder, a mad light of joy on his face. 
Here was the crash of the ordinary, the wreck 
of the usual, and he loved that — loved it because 
for a time it took him from his prison-house of 
thought. Up in the tunnel, where he and Kelly 
struck turn by turn, he said nothing; but Jim 
came to know his thoughts by the fierceness of 
his blows. When anger burned in him he struck 
flame from the drills, or heaved two men's 
loads into the car. 

The stars might have told why on this night 
he outdid himself in wild abandon. Had he 
not stood under the grieving pines the night 
before, while Harrington's guitar sent its silver 
tinklings down the aspen way! Old Lucky had 
reached that stage where the potations of fiery 
death caused slight irritation, but it must be 
said to his credit that he watched over Borden 
with a devotion which always recalled that 
stormy spirit from going too far. 

A charge of cheating at one of the tables 
condensed the insipient hatred. In an instant 
all was bedlam. The sound of blows was as the 


240 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


falling of sledges. Men wallowed together in 
the spew and filth, gouging, biting, strangling. 
Ten couples were settling differences, real or 
imaginary. Faction stood up against faction. 
Fist met fist, knife crashed on knife. 

It was as the opening of a prison gate to 
Borden, and he towered above a dozen sprawl- 
ing forms, out of which Pierre leaped and 
vanished through the door. Through this went 
Burke, on fire with liquor. When the crash 
was past, it was found that the miners were 
in possession of the field . . . the gamblers, 
with their leader, were gone. Borden looked at 
the wreck and laughed. There was something 
grotesque in the disarray. The legs of the 
overturned tables pointed meaninglessly at the 
spots on the ceiling. Then, too, there was such 
an interruption of purpose in the littered cards 
and shattered chips. He imagined the mental 
changes which went with this chaos. For a 
moment he felt the old thrill of mirth, the first 
that had come to him in weeks. 

“We ought to finish the work,” he said to 
Burke; “bar, barrels and all.” 

With Old Lucky shambling beside him, Bor- 
den took the path toward his cabin, giving his 
companion a short good-night at the parting of 
the ways. 

It was reserved for the day, however, to 


THE GATHERING OF THE MIST 241 


bring forth those revelations which brought 
things to a crisis in the camp. With empty 
hands and pockets, two miners had gone from 
the games to separate cabins, desperate and 
excited. The morning revealed their bodies 
hanging stiff at the ends of ropes fastened to 
the ridge-poles of the houses. Each had 
scrawled brief messages of farewell to families 
in the East. Besides these, a third relic of the 
scarlet flood was a corpse in an alley, with a 
slash under the breast-bone, and his pockets 
turned. It was time a stop was put to the reign 
of terror. The miners were moved by a common 
impulse. They drew together to plan for public 
protection. There was work to be done by 
those with steady hands and iron nerves. 


XVIII 


THE EYE AT THE CHINK 

I N the most secret part of a piny hollow stood 
an old cabin, built long before by some miner 
who burrowed there till the snow of some for- 
gotten winter had melted. Many of its chinks 
had fallen out, and the shake roof turned only 
part of the rain. It consisted of one large 
room with a dirt floor. About the hut the hem- 
locks stood dense and shadowy. It was a spot 
seldom visited, save by chipmunks and scolding 
pine squirrels. 

But the old trees which stood guard over the 
battered relic saw strange things, for out of the 
moonlight came swift, shadowy forms, which 
glided wraithlike through the forest. It was 
the hour, and at least twenty had arrived. 

At the door stood a man who demanded of 
each a single word, which, uttered in his ear, 
gained admission. Other forms materialized, 
and the space was soon full. In the center of 
the room stood a table with a chair beside it. 
The men lounged against the wall or sat cross- 
legged on the ground. 


242 


THE EYE AT THE CHINK 


243 


It was midnight. Certainly there was im- 
portant business for men holding meeting at 
such a time. A candle spluttered in its socket, 
giving a half-light in the room. 

With swift, noiseless step a man approached 
the rear end of the cabin, and, hidden by the 
mesh of evergreens which banked the wall, 
stood up with his eye to a chink, through which 
he saw and heard all that transpired within. 
Pierre sat at the table. Beyond him, his arms 
folded, the figure of the Ruby Kid reclined 
against the wall. The watcher at the chink 
scrutinized him less critically than the others. 
The eyes of the boy were often strained at the 
different openings between the logs, as if to 
read what might be written in the darkness 
behind them. 

The deliberations were not long, and the 
lone spy could not get all that was said, but he 
heard his own name spoken repeatedly, and in 
such manner as brought to his lips a thin, hard 
smile. Enough leaked through the chink, how- 
ever, to tell the watcher that the gang was 
planning to organize on more cautious lines, 
their chief aim being to get possession of the 
leading resorts of the camp. 

Noiseless as a shadow, the spy backed away 
and glided into the clasping forest. In a secret 
glen, known only to a few, sat a circle of men, 


244 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


a half-hundred in number. No man smoked, 
and all spoke in low, determined tones. Around 
them were circling thickets and craggy cliffs. 

The laurel at the edge of the glade opened 
and a man entered. He had hurried, for he 
passed his hand over his forehead to wipe away 
the moisture. One of the circle rose, and with 
his hand at his hip advanced toward the new- 
comer. 

"That you, Borden ?” he asked in a whisper. 

"Yes, Burke; are the rest here?” 

"All here. Learn anything?” 

"Sure. Didn’t hear it all, but enough. 
Where’s Lucky?” 

"Here. So is Truxton. He’s had experi- 
ence up Bannock way, in the days of Plummer 
and Zachery, you know.” 

Borden stretched himself on the ground at 
the edge of the circle and rehearsed all he had 
seen and heard. But of what he had caught 
regarding himself he said nothing. 

Truxton arose. "The lines were already 
drawn,” he said. The time had come that the 
better element of the camp must take control 
of things with a firm hand, or the lawless 
faction would be in the saddle, and crime would 
be unchecked. Those who heard him knew that 
he had made such speeches before. Borden lay 
at the edge of the glade, silent and thoughtful. 


THE EYE AT THE CHINK 


245 


There was pale opal in the east when the 
deliberations were over. All sides of the con- 
dition had been discussed thoroughly. It was 
decided to warn each member of the gang, 
telling him to leave the camp at once under 
penalty of death if he refused. If this was not 
heeded, more serious measures would be used 
immediately. A committee of investigation was 
appointed to seek evidence against those sus- 
pected of crime. At the center of this inner 
circle was Borden. 

From this time on a change came over the 
factions. There was less mingling at the bar 
and less banter. Pierre and his henchmen dis- 
played a growing spirit of swagger and insult. 
Strong hints of harm to the miners began to 
be made openly. The gang was confident of 
their strength, and was sure that their plans 
would soon put the camp in their power. 

Borden had reasoned that Pierre would 
entrench himself behind property rights if it 
came to a clean break, and this must be pre- 
vented, by all means. The Frenchman's first 
hint that his plans were known was when he 
met with an evasive refusal to sell from all the 
saloon-owners, though they assured him of their 
friendship secretly. There were reasons for 
their refusal. The committee had seen them. 
The sheriff went aside to think. Later, he went 


246 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


to the secret cabin alone. As he expected, he 
found the prints of a man's feet in the soft 
earth in the rear. The riddle was easy to read. 

The next thing was to learn if the miners 
had held any secret meetings. Miners had held 
such meetings in other places, and their fruit 
had not looked good to Pierre. In time he 
learned, quite to his satisfaction, that such was 
the case. The chief became aggressive, though 
wary. Always relentless in his dragonish hate 
of his enemies, Borden was set down for a 
double portion of his vengeance. He would 
wait his chance, and when it came he would 
strike hard. 


XIX 

THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 


THHERE was an endless charm in the cool 
quiet of autumn glades, where the vines 
crept over the ground like runnels of blood, and 
the aspen thickets were banked gold. Gene was 
lonely, and there was company in the squirrels. 
The Color and the Queen were kind; it was 
not that, but because the answer to her heart’s 
cry was so long delayed. In moments when she 
stole away to be with the pines, she felt to its 
aching depths the asking of her soul. 

Jim had reported a change in Borden. He 
had ceased to throw himself so recklessly into 
the scarlet surge at the Bald Eagle. This had 
brought comfort to Gene’s mind, though the 
end of the matter seemed farther away than 
ever before. 

Borden was fully persuaded that he was not 
more desirable to her than any other man ; 
perhaps not so much so as Harrington. Clearly 
she had preferred the company of the cavalier 
to his. He could have endured this had it not 
been for the element of disappointment which 

247 


248 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


went with it. This threw him back, hard and 
relentless, on his pride, and, without knowing it, 
he had tried her soul in a purple Gethsemane. 

Once they met in the Miners’ Rest, and he 
had received her kind greeting and the shock 
of her near beauty with a calm strength which 
baffled, while it thrilled her. 

On one such day as is the glory of the fall- 
time, the sun dropped out of a clear sky into an 
eternity of haze. The wan twilight which 
followed made the peaks look terribly old and 
gray. Gene left the cabin and went slowly into 
the crisp forest, where the tall hemlocks stood 
up like pillars in an elfin court. Over all was a 
brooding silence, except when some beast of 
prey gave forth its hunger wail. In a nook, 
garlanded with the feathery grace of grass, she 
paused to study a bank of blood willows. Some- 
how, they reminded her of human hearts. They 
were so red. Those gray clumps were the other, 
more sober, experiences of life, while these 
pooled crimsons were the untold things of the 
soul. Farther away in a glade, she found deer 
feeding among the withered mint. 

Slowly she went on, feeling the wonder and 
power of the stainless wild. A pensive longing 
clung to her, a hunger unfathomed as the nature 
of women. Close by the trail she sat down, her 
hands clasped in her lap, her eyes filled with 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 249 


mystery. The flesh seemed to drop away, and 
the soul went forth to mingle with the witchery 
of all things, hovering around its prison like 
an odor. 

Gene felt a strange power upon her. It was 
as if she could send her thoughts abroad and 
impress those distant from her. With a start 
she remembered that she might thus touch the 
man who dominated her being. Stretching her 
hands into the moonlight, she called him with a 
passionate, wordless call. Was there an answer? 
She could not say. There were choice pearls at 
the bottom of the pools of fancy, and they were 
worth gathering. 

She was startled from her reverie by the 
sound of steps. Some one was running down 
the mountain. She listened. The steps were 
coming closer. Half frightened, she drew into 
the shadow. An instant later a form swept the 
branches aside and bounded into the opening. 
With the keenness of a wild creature the intruder 
stopped, sensing her presence, and looked to- 
ward where she stood. Gene recognized the 
Ruby Kid. 

“What has happened ?” she queried anxious- 
ly, a dread of something oppressing her intui- 
tively. 

“That you, Miss Truxton?” he asked, out 
of breath. 


250 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Yes. Where are you hurrying to, and 
why ?” 

“I am on the way for help. Borden is in 
trouble. They have had it in for him all 
summer. I know. Got him in a cabin up the 
canyon. They’ll kill him, too, before midnight. 
Pierre’s not there — they’re waiting for him — 
don’t give me away.” 

Gene’s heart stood still for a moment; then 
something hard, desperate, thrilled through her. 

“Where did you say he is?” she asked, in a 
voice strangely calm and colorless. 

“He’s in an old cabin just above this trail, 
at the edge of a thicket of young firs, about a 
mile up. It’s the end of him if help don’t get 
there before Pierre does. It took twenty of 
the gang to get him there. My! the fight he 
put up was something terrible to see.” 

“Go on!” she commanded, in a voice clear 
and imperative. “Get Kelly, and Burke, and 
Old Lucky, and — and the rest! Don’t lose a 
second of time!” 

The boy sprang into the trail and darted 
from sight like a deer. Left alone, Gene felt 
the full sense of Borden’s danger. What if the 
Kid should have trouble in finding these men? 
Kelly had spoken of being out of camp that day. 
Burke might be in some of the cabins. There 
was no doubt that the gang would wait the 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 251 


coming of their chief, who would claim the 
privilege of slaying his enemy. But Pierre 
might return at any moment. Instantly her 
thoughts cleared. The Frenchman must not 
reach the cabin before the rescuers arrived. 
Turning, she sped down the path toward home. 

Entering the cabin, she took something from 
a drawer that flashed as the firelight fell upon 
it. This she hid in her dress. Then, with a few 
words to Aunt Ruth, she went out. With no 
sense of weariness she ran up the trail, past the 
spot where she had met the Kid, and on into 
the deep forest beyond. 

Once she paused to listen to the footfalls of 
some beast of prey, which kept abreast of her 
in the bordering thickets. She was desperately 
afraid, but went on, running down the slopes 
and climbing the steep places without resting. 
Somewhere ahead in the bewildering mesh of 
shadow and light was the man she loved — loved ! 
She knew it now as she never dared own it even 
to herself before. She pictured him bruised, 
slashed with knives, and wracked with pain. It 
had taken twenty of the gang to overpower him. 
That was glorious! But there was blood on 
his forehead ; she was sure of that. He had bat- 
tled to the last, and had gone down with the old 
smile on his lips. She knew it. Borden could 
yield in no other way. She began to see that 


252 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


this man she was trying to save from himself 
had great strength of character. Spent with 
haste, she turned aside and fell upon her knees, 
asking for strength and courage. She must not 
fail — God must help her to win. 

She judged that she had come nearly a mile, 
and went on more cautiously. The trail wound 
through world-old trees, which grew close to- 
gether. At the farther edge of this grove was 
an open space, washed now with moonlight. 
At the right a spread of young evergreens came 
half-way down the slope, making a toga of 
dark, dense trees which spread over into a 
glade beyond. 

Gene moved with noiseless step. There were 
stumps showing here and there among the trees. 
The cabin was not far away. Listening intently, 
she made out the low murmur of voices. At 
first she had taken the sound to be a banter of 
some small stream, quarreling with its reeds. 
All doubt was dispelled when a moment later 
the flare of a match showed the location of the 
hut. 

Creeping under the fringing thickets, she 
parted the laurel and peered down into the tiny 
glade. Before the door a half-dozen men 
lounged upon the ground. One stood guard at 
the front. She heard the snap of a watch-case, 
and the comments which accompanied it. 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 253 


“Might go ahead with the job ourselves,” 
growled one. 

“Not on your life! Pierre would riddle the 
gang with lead. This is his job. There is 
something personal between them. Has to do 
with the Queen. You know Borden and that 
saint from up the trail took her out of the Bald 
Eagle saloon. Then, there was a shooting- 
match. Well, it’s over that, I think.” 

“He ought to be here,” the others contended. 

“Oh, that’s all right. Pierre knows his busi- 
ness. You see, it’s this way: He has a notion 
that the Queen will come to think he is all right. 
Met her down Senora way, and has been on 
her trail ever since.” 

“For all of which we don’t care a fig. The 
question is, Why doesn’t he show up? It’s eight 
o’clock.” 

“Which way will he come?” 

“Up the trail from town, of course. He 
wanted to see what was going on down there. 
He will not stay very long, for he’ll want to 
know our success ; whether we trapped the game 
or not. Nothing doing till he gets here.” 

Gene had heard every word from the laurel 
mesh, where she lay hidden. That was enough. 
Pierre was expected any moment, and he would 
come by the same path she had. Borden was 
safe till then. Without making any sound, she 


254 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


crept away. At the edge of the wood she put 
her face in her hands and prayed once more. 
Strengthened, she rose and entered the wood. 

At the point where the trees grew close, with 
a tiny opening, puddled with moonlight beyond, 
she crept close to a giant tree and waited, her 
eyes on the little spot through which the trail 
ran. He would have to come that way. She 
set a mark — he would not go beyond that young 
tree at the left. If he attempted it — 

Silent as the tree by which she stood, Gene 
waited. She was strangely calm. She won- 
dered at this. The moment when his form 
would darken the moonlight drew constantly 
nearer. She knew that Pierre would take des- 
perate chances, and the thought caused her 
fingers to close tightly around the checked 
handle of the automatic. 

In the opening below she heard the munch- 
ing of deer. From a canyon came the gathering 
cry of wolves. There was something ghost- 
ly in the hooting of the owls. The forest was 
full of strange voices. From the cabin came a 
burst of coarse laughter. In it lay the man she 
was risking her life to save — the man she loved! 

How long she waited Gene never could tell, 
for when she looked back at the experience, she 
only knew that something dark came within 
the range of her vision, and that she found her- 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 255 


self at the rim of the moonlight, her hand 
thrust forward holding the automatic three feet 
from the breast of the Frenchman. There was 
a dim recollection of the cold flash of the stars 
on the steel, and the panther-like crouch of the 
villain. 

Under the spot covered by the revolver, 
Pierre's heart beat fast with astonishment and 
fear. From her lips came low words of warn- 
ing and command, and the man obeyed her. 

“Don't move unless I tell you," she cautioned 
in a voice strangely level in its tones. 

She was desperate, but calm. Her own self- 
possession surprised her. If this worker of evil 
went on, it must be over her body, and she made 
him feel just that. Slowly she moved toward 
him, speaking cold, low words. In her actions 
and voice he read determination. At her com- 
mand he raised his hands and turned his face 
to the tree. Two feet behind him the girl stood 
strong and lithe in the moonlight, the bit of 
bunched steel dangerously ready. 

The winds lifted up their voices in the trees, 
and from far came a whisper. The sounds 
recalled her, and Gene had time to take an esti- 
mate of her actions. She had suddenly dis- 
covered elements in her nature which she never 
dreamed were there. In a calmer moment she 
would have considered it impossible that she 


256 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


could take part in such wild happenings. She 
was getting acquainted with her entire self for 
the first time. There was something splendid 
in this discovery. She was not afraid now. It 
was the quality in her womanhood which was 
capable of vast decisions and issues. On this 
her sisters had helped shape the vicarious his- 
tory of the world. Women had gone down to 
death with the objects of their hearts; they had 
faced dangers by cliff and stream, even as she 
was doing; they had been smitten of the sleet 
and wounded by the hail; fang and claw had 
been bared against them, and they had been 
torn, yet they had persevered, with a light in 
their faces which had been caught from the 
glance of God. 

She was standing under the drip of history 
— the history of woman — and she was lifting 
her portion to the level of the heart — the heart 
surcharged with love as pure as opal fire. 
Wondrous breast of woman! What mysteries 
are there. From its snowy depths, what streams 
go forth, and what flames to warm the universe ; 
there surge the longings which persuade God; 
there quiver the powers, fond or fatal, which 
melt or madden; there smokes an altar which 
will receive no offering less than herself — her 
soul. Mysterious pillow, where a God once 
slept; ravishing fountain from which Deity once 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 257 


drew life. Harp of a thousand strings, played 
over by the softest, the wildest winds of passion, 
whose ravishing music is more gently sweet 
than Chindara’s trembling fountain. There 
leap the visions which inspire the world; there 
flash the jeweled courts of purity walked by 
all white angels; there shine the lights of truth 
like close stars over snow. Into these burning- 
confines the soul of man comes — once, the soul 
of one man, to meet the soul of woman, to be 
melted, one into the other, as the tinted mist 
into the sun. 

Actuated by holy passion, Gene was uncon- 
sciously keeping her place in the lofty scale of 
womanhood . . . the queendom of the heart. 
At last all that was strange in what she was 
doing passed away, and she began to study the 
man before her. She saw the faded silk hand- 
kerchief which swathed his throat, and knew 
that he had worn it a long time. She saw, 
also, that he wore no coat. When he complained 
that his arms ached she permitted him to put 
them around the tree, but the pressure of the 
automatic between his shoulders told him that 
he must make no effort to escape. 

For a time he protested his innocence, and 
begged to be allowed to go on. Then the crest- 
fallen chief gave vent to his anger in blasphemy 
and threats, but the automatic only pressed a 


258 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


little harder between his shoulders, and the 
girl's words seemed more full of icy meaning. 
In this way the minutes passed, while the wind 
complained bitterly of some old wrong, in the 
branches, and the strange whisper crept to her 
out of the far place. But it was not for the 
wind or the whisper that she listened, but for 
the tramp of chesty men. When it was yet faint 
down the trail, the bandit moved uneasily and 
listened . . . they were coming. The pressure 
increased between his shoulders. His curses 
fell upon unhearing ears; his threats were un- 
heeded. At her cold command he raised his 
hands once more above his head. He knew that 
the white finger which touched the dog of the 
revolver needed only to take the slack of it and 
he would be as the fir against which he leaned. 
In this manner they remained till the rescuers 
found them. Gene had raised her finger for 
silence, and the men took possession of the 
Frenchman without noise. 

It was the work of a moment to bind and 
gag the outlaw. Then Old Lucky made the one 
sentimental speech of his life, when he shuffled 
about muttering broken things about the “Angel 
of Deadman, for sure"; and that “God Al- 
mighty never made a finer job of a woman." 

The Ruby Kid said little, only telling Gene 
that he never had seen her equal. 


THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK 259 


It was the common opinion of the crowd 
that there was not another woman on the 
frontier who could have taken Pierre captive 
alone. But Gene's heart was in none of this 
praise, though she well knew that these rugged 
men meant every word of it. Now that Borden 
was safe, she thought only of keeping her part 
of the affair from his ears, and immediately 
exacted a binding promise from each of the 
men that such should be the case. Sometime she 
might give them her consent to speak of it, but 
not now. 

The laurel around the cabin where Borden 
lay bound knew a strange birth that night, when 
a score of forms leaped living and terrible from 
its green loins, and rushed roaring upon the 
astonished gang before the door. Gene heard 
the voice of Burke raising his battle-cry, and 
saw the door lift from its hinges under one of 
his blows. She waited till she saw Borden 
spring out, his battered crest unhumbled, then, 
unseen, she withdrew and sped swiftly down 
the trail. 


XX 


THE HUMBLING OF JACK HARRINGTON 

ILL the bunch grass grew over him, Old 



*■* Lucky never ceased to remind the members 
of the rescue party that the man a woman had 
captured, alone, had given them all the slip. 

The old trailer always considered this a 
great joke, and he enjoyed telling it, though the 
others found little satisfaction in the rehearsal. 
Quick as the spring of a panther, the French- 
man had bounded into the thicket and escaped. 
A stream of bullets followed him, but they only 
clipped the laurel, doing no harm. The chief, 
with the other members of the gang, had not 
returned to the camp. It would be wise to stay 
away till things had cooled down somewhat. 

Jack Harrington continued to visit the Trux- 
ton cabin, and Borden became more set in his 
reckless career. Periods of calm came to him — 
periods which ended in wilder seasons of reck- 
lessness. The throbbing of a guitar, accom- 
panied by a rich voice, never failed to explode 
the pent forces within him. 

Nothing but pride kept Borden from strang- 


260 


HUMBLING OF HARRINGTON 261 


ling the conceited cavalier; and even this might 
have been forgotten had not this son of the 
Seven Seas kept well beyond the miner's reach. 

Jack Harrington was sure that Gene Trux- 
ton was interested in him. But to what extent, 
or in what manner, he was unable to guess. 
With the penetration of one well read in the 
arts feminine, he knew her to be different from 
other women. In spite of himself, he put aside 
his lighter conceits and fell into a more worthy 
mood. All that was good in his nature had been 
stirred. Slowly the mists of error had lifted 
from his eyes, and he saw things more worthy 
of the soul. The old abandon dropped from 
him, and he caught a glimpse of what he might 
have been — what he might be yet, with this 
woman beside him. At this point Harrington 
began to dream a dream, and in it he saw him- 
self redeemed from his old ways. In the vision 
his head was lifted, and his hand held a very 
white one — the hand of Gene Truxton. 

As the hope ripened, he grew thoughtful. 
A brooding earnestness came to his eyes, and a 
richer note to his songs. Gene saw the change, 
and for his sake drew somewhat away. In her 
woman's nature grew a large pity, and she 
wished that she might be a lasting inspiration 
to this dreamer of light dreams. 

With the tantalizing hope and fear ever 


262 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


before him, Harrington debated his proper 
course. He must speak some time; that was 
his way. It was also like him to overrate his 
power with women, and to be guided more by 
fancy than reason or love. 

It was a calm autumn night, with a clear, 
high moon, when, suddenly putting aside his 
guitar, he launched into a rehearsal of his life. 
Frank as the stars above them, he told her all; 
of women who had clung to his neck; of that 
one found at the rim of the sea, foam-covered 
and white. Nothing was omitted. There had 
been nights in Venice under the gondolier's 
song; and gay meetings in perfumed Parisian 
boudoirs. English Marys had mourned for 
him, and Irish Noras as well. Hawthorn and 
holly had seen his victories. But of all this 
he was ashamed now. There was a change. 
Since meeting her, there had come to him a 
desire for better things. To what heights of 
achievement he might climb with her face 
before him, her hand in his. 

Through the long rehearsal of waywardness 
and heartbreak — a course which had touched the 
man’s face with the stamp of wrong-doing — 
Gene listened with a deepening sorrow of heart. 
It was not pleasant to cover the opening roses 
in the garden of the man’s soul with frost, but 
he must know the impossibility of his dream. 


HUMBLING OF HARRINGTON 263 


Kindly, almost tenderly, she made the 
wound, yet so swiftly did she follow it with the 
oil and wine that the man felt moved to fall at 
her feet and put the hem of her garment to his 
lips. Frankly she showed him her heart. In it 
there was only friendship for him. If he re- 
deemed himself, she would be proud, and it 
would be one of the comforts of her life to 
know that she had, even in a small way, con- 
tributed to the impulse which might lead him to 
win the crown of manhood — the glittering crest 
of honor. 

As her lips spoke away his hope and put her 
forever out of his life, save as a friend, he did 
not once take his eyes from the wondrous face. 
Then slowly the impossibility of it all came to 
him. The thing about her which had made her 
different from all women he had known was 
that which would keep her from him. He began 
to see that, after all, the thing which had been 
the most attractive in this woman was the fact 
that she was good, and the discovery thrilled 
him with a delicious self-respect. He also saw 
that he desired the ideal of his soul more than 
that which had inspired it. Gene saw this, and 
set him right with a firmness which left no 
ground for misunderstanding. 

For some time they sat in silence when she 
ceased speaking. 


264 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“I should have known it was all impossible,” 
he said at last. “I who have been the knight of 
Vagabondia — how could I ask so much of you? 
The vulture never mates with the dove. But 
there is much in a vision, and, no matter what 
I may yet be, I have lifted the veil and have 
looked upon the uncovered face of truth. That 
image must remain.” 

He rose and held out his hand. She per- 
mitted hers to rest in it for a moment, then 
gently withdrew it. 

“This is not dismissal; you may come as 
before,” she said, frankly. 

“I will; but you must forget all I have said 
to-night. Let it be as though it never were 
uttered. It was all a mistake; I see it now.” 

With a clear good-night, he turned into the 
trail, and was almost immediately lost from 
sight under the hemlocks. 


XXI 


THE AWAKENING 

W ITH a blast of bugles the white cavalry 
of winter charged across the hills. 
Storms lifted up their trumpets on the peaks, 
and whirling hail sheeted the wilderness. 

Out of the fastnesses came the wild things. 
Wolves boomed at the very rim of the camp, 
and the forest herds streamed to the greasewood 
pastures of the lowlands. Foot on foot the 
white fluff accumulated in the mountains. The 
trees stood still and laden. Forever the winds 
wailed around the icy cliffs. Nature bowed 
herself and birthed her children. With a hiss- 
ing sound the small snow eddied in blinding 
clouds. The storm had a belligerent whine. 
There was challenge in the night. Wild anarchy 
reigned where soft-eyed summer had brooded 
by pool and bower. The stars were gone; the 
moon came no more. 

Gene had expected to leave the mountains 
before the coming of the snow, but so sudden 
was its appearance that she was compelled to 
wait till it settled. Aunt Ruth had found the 

265 


266 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


high air not the best for her cough; this, added 
to a lawful homesickness, had set that good 
woman’s mind firmly to return to what she was 
pleased to call real civilization. 

The thought of going brought a feeling of 
relief to Gene. It would be better for her to 
be far away from the trail up which she often 
saw a strong form swinging. It had been hard 
to see him standing in his cabin door, the slant- 
ing sunshine falling over him, looking with 
unseeing eyes. 

In the time of her preparation, while the 
storm raged, she had many heart talks with 
The Color and the Queen. In one of these she 
had said something about Jack Harrington’s 
confession. It was in a thoughtless moment 
when she and the girl were alone in the powder 
cabin, and she had not told her not to mention 
the matter to Jim. In no great time this had 
dropped from the lips of the candid girl into 
the ears of Kelly, who had promptly joked 
Borden about it. Borden’s eyes, which were 
either a blaze of resistance or a gloom of 
dreams, flashed dangerously. 

“What did she say?” he asked in tones hard 
as flint. 

“Don’t know. Think it must have gone all 
right for Jack. He is still going there. I never 
saw him so quiet.” 


THE AWAKENING 


267 


“He’s playing the hypocrite, that’s all!” 

Borden looked the misery he felt. If Kelly 
had thought to rouse Borden from his mood to 
a better one, he instantly saw his mistake. An 
hour later, when he saw him slip a revolver into 
his pocket, he took genuine fright. 

“See here, Bord, you’ve been acting the 
blamed fool long enough. Put that thing back 
and behave yourself before you get in deep. It’s 
been a misery to be around you for weeks. 
What’s struck you, anyway?” 

Borden made no reply, but, pushing his 
partner aside, went ouPinto the gathering twi- 
light. The snow lay smooth and white over the 
land. Gray clouds drifted across the sky like 
things of ill omen. In the saloons he learned 
that Harrington had been called into the moun- 
tains before the storm. He knew the place. 
The cavalier had interests there, and often 
visited it. 

That night he returned early and retired, 
but at daybreak he was breasting the deep 
drifts in the canyon as he battled toward the 
summit. Far above him glittered the pass 
through which the half-broken trail wound. 
With a relish he fought the baffling smother 
foot by foot. Only in a vague way did he try 
to analyze his mood. Never before was he in a 
frame of mind to take life. Even now he 


268 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


denied it to himself. It would be a relief to 
look through the pass. True, Jack Harrington 
was where he was going; but Jack Harrington 
would be all right if he kept out of the way. 
But that was sure not to happen. In fact, he 
planned fiercely that it should not. 

As midday approached, the gray mass above 
him began to drop rain, and a Chinook wind 
came soft as a baby's breath from the south- 
west. In a little time the laden trees began to 
drop their burdens, the branches swinging up 
to their old positions with many courtly bows. 
Masses of snow slipped from the wall-rocks and 
rolled down the hillsides. 

Borden watched the developments critically. 
Long experience in the mountains had taught 
him his danger, and he hurried on, apprehensive 
of the smooth, wide surfaces above him where 
thousands of tons of snow hung suspended, 
rain-soaked and ready. 

Hot and overwrought, he reached the pass, 
and leaned against a tree to rest. It may have 
been the touch of the soft wind, or the loneliness 
of his position, that caused him to fall into a 
troubled state of thought. The thunder of a 
distant avalanche did not disturb him. He was 
counting the times he had stood under the pines 
listening to the throbbing of Harrington's 
guitar. Over against the brazen self-conceit of 


THE AWAKENING 


269 


the rogue he set his own honest efforts to be 
better, and his secret pain. Only by the vilest 
deception could this man win the heart of Gene 
Truxton. Gradually a new view of the case 
began to deceive him. He had been wronged, 
and now the woman he loved was about to be 
wretchedly deceived by the man he was hunting. 
How could this wretch, this chip from the forest 
of abandon, have reached the point of offering 
himself in marriage to this woman by anything 
else? An oath rose sizzling to his lips. If only 
he could meet him now! 

The wish was father to the fact, for, turn- 
ing, he saw Jack Harrington coming down 
the slope. He waited till he was a dozen paces 
away and stepped forth. Harrington saw his 
danger in Borden’s eyes and drew back. 

“You can’t run this time, Jack, and you 
must take yours. You have lied to her, told 
her a fair tale. I have suffered, and can suffer 
more, but you shall not ruin her life; I’ll kill 
you first.” 

Throwing back his coat, Borden drew the 
weapon from its holster. 

“You are armed; prepare to defend your- 
self, Jack Harrington. I’ll not take advantage 
of you. You have a man’s chance. Now, be 
quick!” 

Borden’s hand shot out straight, and a quick 


270 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


report rattled up to the cliff before a word of 
protest could be uttered. Harrington fell a 
huddled heap into the drifts. Borden walked 
to where he crouched and looked curiously at 
the man's face, almost as white as the snow. 
There was a growing spot of crimson under 
the right temple which fascinated him. He 
watched it widen in the ermine element. All he 
had read or heard of blood-shedding rushed 
through Borden's mind. He had killed a man! 
Slowly the thought took fearful shape in his 
mind. His mood changed, and he began to see 
what he had done. The pendulum swung back 
with an awakening crash. The creaking of a 
dead tree caused him to start up and peer 
around. He had heard that every seed brings 
its kind; that out of the sowing of a man comes 
his harvest. He had been sowing to death for 
weeks, and now he must reap it. With rasping 
oaths he cursed himself for a fool — a madman! 
The ghost of Cain seemed to whirl by on the 
cloudy wings of the mist; and now he, too, 
would wander over the world, marked and con- 
stantly slain, but never could he cross the widen- 
ing blot which began on the snow at his feet. 

A vast pity for the huddled shape took pos- 
session of him. There was something pathetic 
in the wilt of the hands. What witness to his 
folly! In the bitterness of his regret he looked 


THE AWAKENING 


271 


up. As he did so, the rain fell gently upon his 
face. Something in its cool touch encouraged 
him. The cloud which had settled upon his soul 
lifted a little. It seemed strange that the rain 
would touch him. Was there not something — 
some one — back of the rain that was also kind? 
He crushed his hands in agony. “God!” he 
moaned, “this is awful!” He looked about, his 
temples throbbing wildly. “God!” he repeated. 
But there was no answer, save the sound of the 
wind, which seemed shaping itself into the fear- 
ful words: “Too late! Too late!” 

With an oath he threw the revolver far into 
the snow. Then kneeling, he placed his hand 
over Harrington’s heart. Thank Heaven! he 
was still alive. Hastily examining the wound, 
which was close to the temple, he found it only 
a skin affair. The man would revive presently. 

Reaction from the strain of a moment before 
set in. He felt a surge of gratitude sweep over 
him. As by a miracle he had been spared a life- 
long misery, and he was thankful. In the fervor 
of his changed mood he began talking to Har- 
rington in the companionable speech of the hills. 
Even now it seemed impossible that it was his 
hand which had done this deed, or that it could 
have been his soul which had harbored so black 
a purpose. New and strange sensations were 
moving him. He never had felt condemnation 


272 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


before. Till now, he had found some excuse 
for what he did; but he was surprised to find 
that he did not wish to justify what he had 
done. Rather, he heaped abuse upon himself. 

A dash of snow in the face, with vigorous 
rubbing, restored Harrington to consciousness. 
For a time his gaze wandered over Borden’s 
face in a mystified way. Finally a wan smile 
came to his lips, and he endeavored to sit up. 
Borden carried him to a tree, propping him 
against the trunk, and sank down beside him, 
grasping his hand. 

“God, Jack! Fm glad you’re alive!” he 
blurted out impulsively. Borden felt the hand 
he held tighten faintly over his. 

“You shouldn’t have felt that way, Borden; 
we are neither of us worthy to touch the hem 
of her garment, to say nothing of winning her 
love. Men like us can’t do that. She’s a hun- 
dred times too good for any man on earth. I 
see it now and am satisfied. I was wrong to 
think anything else, but — I needed her — that is 
— I thought I did. I was a fool. Her heart is 
as distant from me as a star.” 

“Can you forgive this piece of work, Jack?” 
Borden implored. 

“Yes; think no more of it. I understand. 
Now, if you’ll help me to my feet, I think I can 
walk.” 


THE AWAKENING 


273 


‘Til tell the boys all about it when I get to 
camp, and they can do what they think is best,” 
said Borden, helping Jack to rise. 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. Many is the 
little fray I’ve had, growing out of amours here 
and there, and they were not worth the powder, 
either. Spitted a high-bred Castilian with a 
Spanish rapier who objected to my successful 
advances toward his mistress. The man got 
well and had more sense. The Senorita — sor- 
row to her — had a sweet voice — as the lovers of 
that land say, ‘Su voz es dulce conmovedora y 
melodiosa / but she emptied my purse and then 
threw a thistle at me from her casement when 
I was expecting a red rose. I was told she 
married the dog afterwards.” 

“I was a chump. I have done too much hot 
thinking of late. If you will do it, I’ll take 
your place and you can have a shot at my head. 
It would be right.” 

Harrington laughed. “Til do that one thou- 
sand years from now, Borden. Here, give me 
your shoulder. I’m a little groggy. It’s cold, 
too, isn’t it?” 

The man he had come miles through the 
snow to kill, Borden was steadying down the 
trail with his arm about him. So swift and 
unexpected are the changes of purpose in the 
heart of man. 


274 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Silently, steadily, the rain continued to fall. 
Softly the Chinook swooned across the white 
waste. All the snow had fallen from the trees, 
and they stood clean-washed pyramids in the 
measureless reaches of white. Borden found 
the man leaning heavily at the end of half a 
mile, and it was ten to the camp. The short 
winter day was nearing its close, and there was 
prospect that they would have to spend the night 
in the mountains. 

“There’s a cabin down in the canyon, Bor- 
den. Guess we better turn in. I can’t go much 
farther.” 

“You’re cold, too, Jack; you are shivering. 
God! what a devil I am!” 

After a hard hour breaking trail through 
waist-deep snow, Borden reached the door and 
cleared a space so it would open. Once inside, 
it was the work of a minute to have a fire going 
in the fireplace, which seemed to have been 
waiting to serve an emergency. Stretched on 
some discarded blankets, Harrington was soon 
comfortable. Borden found some tea in a can, 
and prepared a hot drink by melting snow. The 
steaming element brought new energy to Har- 
rington’s body. 

Night fell early, starless and abysmal. Out 
of the cavernous dark came the steady rush of 
the rain and the sighing of the wind through 


THE AWAKENING 


275 


the firs. Save for occasional outbursts against 
himself, Borden said little. He prepared several 
brews of tea, and ministered to the wounded 
man as tenderly as a woman. When Harring- 
ton's deep breathing told that he was asleep, he 
rose and looked for food. He was hungry. It 
had been hours since he had eaten. But there 
was nothing to be found. What might have 
been left was long ago purloined by chipmunks 
and squirrels. 

Going to the door, Borden stood looking out 
into the castled gloom. The murk seemed to 
clasp him about like an ill-omen. There was 
something appalling in the intense earnestness 
of nature. The rain fell as if driven by the 
hand of justice. Out of the depths came a 
soundless moan, a voiceless regret. The wild 
threnody in the pines moved Borden strangely. 
A cold touch of fear fell upon his soul. He 
shuddered and drew back. For once in his life 
he felt afraid. It was the dread of right, the 
frown of God! The loneliness was overmaster- 
ing — smothering. The heavy breathing from 
the bunk was dreadful. The man might, after 
all, be dying. 

Borden crept to the bed and studied his face 
anxiously; then he threw on wood and returned 
to the door. As he peered into the stacked 
shadows, two gray forms glided wraithlike 


276 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


through the belt of light, on into the depths 
beyond. A moment later the meat-call of the 
pack boomed shudderingly along the cliffs. 

“They are trailing the blood,” he mused bit- 
terly. “I made that trail; I, too, am a beast.” 

Somewhere a dead tree toppled and fell with 
a lingering thud which struck the night like a 
blow in the face. There was menace on all sides. 
He seemed adrift upon a shoreless sea without 
rudder or chart. Circling furies were sucking 
him down; yawning whirlpools were waiting to 
swallow him. All about him — in him — there 
was condemnation. Fingers took shape in the 
mist and pointed as they passed; hideous faces 
peered at him with revolting grins. Regret 
rode the trembling stretches of his soul, tramp- 
ling it fearfully. Some terrible doom seemed at 
hand. Out of the black immensity came merci- 
less accusations. Borden shrank back and 
closed the door. Once more he supplied the 
fire with wood, and, sitting down, buried his 
face in his hands. In spite of his efforts, he 
groaned with misery. Starting up, he glanced 
at his companion; he still slept quietly. 

Never before had Borden suffered condem- 
nation for his wickedness. For a time he feared 
that he was going mad, and he thought of the 
automatic lying deep in the snow of the pass. 
Under a monster weight he seemed crushed to 


THE AWAKENING 


277 


the earth. “O God!” burst from the inmost 
depths of his spirit. Could Gene Truxton have 
heard that cry she would have raised her white 
hands, and with streaming tears have given 
thanks for it. But she did not know. 

Restless and desperate, shut up to remorse, 
Borden paced the floor. He was tired and over- 
wrought, he told himself. What he needed was 
sleep and rest. He would be all right in the 
morning. Throwing himself down beside Har- 
rington, he lay watching the red embers of the 
hearth, and trying to put everything out of his 
mind, but the spots grew larger; widened till 
they covered the earth, and over the vast crim- 
son field he was walking a hunted Cain. 


XXII 


THE HOUSE OF PAIN 

O NLY the rain and the night knew the 
moment of it — the night and the fiends of 
the storm. 

Soft as the breath of woman the Chinook 
continued to blow, till the white mass lay sodden 
and dangerous over the hills. Hour by hour 
the wind clipped the cables which kept it in 
place; moment by moment the rain coaxed it to 
the plunge. Silently the tawny ruin waited — 
waited the high moment, for nature has such 
moments; so have battlefields; so has the heart; 
points of time into which great happenings run. 
These are the seconds which reveal God and in- 
terpret Being. 

And Borden slept, and dreamed as he slept 
that he walked on red earth, and that he was 
the companion of Macbeth, and knew not that 
this was the hour of the snow. In the watches 
after midnight it came ; the time when the brav- 
est fear. The cliffs had waited for it; the for- 
ests had lifted up feathery protesting hands, but 
it came, a thundering, relentless hate. 

278 


THE HOUSE OF PAIN 


279 


At the first sliding sound, the waiting im- 
mensity grew tense; then the hills broke into 
rattling hurrah! Where an instant before had 
been standing trees and smaller growth, there 
was now the stripped earth, while below the 
dense pack filled the canyon, a hundred feet 
deep, and mid-center of the crush were the scat- 
tered cabin and the two men. 

Borden regained consciousness slowly. He 
realized, vaguely at first, that he was being held 
down by a vast, crushing weight. He was 
smothered for breath. There was a maddening 
whisper in his ears. He was buried at the heart 
of the world — all mountains were above him. 
He tried to contract his muscles, but could not 
accomplish the slightest movement. 

Gradually his mind cleared and he began to 
realize what had happened. He had helped 
take many others from their snow graves. Why 
had he not thought of the danger? Dimly he 
remembered the height of the mountain which 
had sent this mass upon him. It must be deep, 
very deep. This was the end. In a few hours 
at most he would be dead. The length of time 
depended on the amount of air stored in the 
pack. 

In time his mind became clear. He was not 
injured, and, strange to say, he found the same 
agony of soul, which he had known when he 


280 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


went to sleep, was still his, only it was intensi- 
fied seven- fold. The blood spot on the snow 
was ghastly as ever, and deeper of stain. He 
tried to put it away, but it held at the core of his 
being. In an instant Borden saw his heart, with 
its black well, from which all the wickedness of 
his life had flowed. The sight filled him with 
agony. The sting of conviction scorched him 
like fire. He groaned in spirit, and was 
troubled. Had he been in the gracious sunshine, 
he would have called aloud that Heaven might 
hear and forgive. The excesses of his life swept 
past, each one pausing to drop upon his con- 
science its own leaf of nettle. Borden felt he 
must die of agony before the air supply had 
been exhausted. 

In his ears dinned the snarl of the Bald Eagle 
crowd, and it was as the wailing of lost spirits 
to him. Through the bedlam of abominations 
he saw himself, pleased with it all, reveling in 
it. There he had struck men, and they had bled 
— bled much. It had looked good to him then; 
it had proved that he was fit; now it was stran- 
gling him. Always it was this thought, this vis- 
ion of blood, that was before him. Though 
packed in the ice crush, Borden felt hot as with 
fever. 

If only he could cry aloud, but that was im- 
possible; the cold element held his lips as if to 


THE HOUSE OF PAIN 


281 


prevent him. Then he remembered his reckless 
blasphemy. It seemed dinned into his ears oath 
by oath. He had never heard his own voice be- 
fore. How fearfully it was accentuated in his 
brain. A mountain of guilt crushed him in 
spirit, even as the snow of the slide pressed his 
body. It was horrible! 

Out of the cold mist which ever had hung 
over his upward glance, came the face of God, 
and in it there was no warmth, no pity. It was 
all clear in an instant. The knowledge of sin 
came from an understanding of God and the 
character of God. In his wickedness he had 
been in rebellion against the Infinite. Now 
he must reap his choice, and only he was to 
blame. He saw his own selfishness for the first 
time, and that his efforts at goodness were the 
merest hypocrisy. Only one thing could he 
find to be glad for — he had honored woman- 
hood. Strange that he should have drawn the 
line there. This was all. Buried with him, and 
dead, too, perhaps, was the man he had tried to 
murder. There was the blood on his face and 
hands and over all the snow; and he must die — 
die with despair brooding vulture-like over his 
soul. Die, with the burning glance of remorse 
eating into his very being. If such agony could 
haunt the last moments, to what endless 
stretches of time beyond the last breath might 


282 


THE ANGEL O’ DE ADMAN 


it not reach? Forever he must feel the sting of 
guilt and see that fearful stain. If only there 
was mercy! If only Harrington might live! 
These things were impossible; he faced retribu- 
tion without a star in the sky of justice. 

From depth to depth he fell, and in each he 
found a more rending agony. Once more the 
words burst unsyllabled from his soul, “Great 
God !” Then darkness. 

When consciousness returned, Borden was 
suddenly aware that he could move his head, and 
that one arm was free. Something had hap- 
pened, and that something was the fire. The 
stones had been red hot when he went to sleep. 
The snow was melted about him. A wild hope 
surged through him, and with it a feeling that 
unmerited mercy was giving him another 
chance. All he had felt of unworthiness was 
merged into gratitude, and he wept. Naturally, 
he fell into the channels of a forgotten lan- 
guage: things his mother had taught him. He 
could say little, however, for smothering 
emotions swept over him, and with them a new 
and penetrating joy. 


XXIII 


A STAIR THAT WAS CRYSTAL 

B ORDEN soon worked himself free. Taking 
his knife from its scabbard, he cut the 
snow away, and was able to move about in a 
small cavity. The heat melted what he had 
loosened, and he began to search about to find 
Harrington. Sharpening a piece of wood, he 
made holes in the softening mass to let in the 
prisoned air. The feel of logs told him that 
the cabin had not been moved far, and he was 
sure that his companion was near where the 
bunk had been. 

A moan told him that Harrington was alive. 
After half an hour of work he was able to 
draw him into the cavity, and found that he was 
hurt rather seriously, though his injuries con- 
sisted mostly of bruises from the collapsing 
cabin. Once he had cleared a space in which 
he could move, Borden began to exercise his 
wits. The darkness was utter, and the horror 
of the grave filled the place. They knew that 
there were mountains of snow heaped above 
them. 


283 


284 


THE ANGEL O’ HEADMAN 


The presence of trees through the pack 
might admit sufficient air to sustain life, for 
these had prevented the snow from losing what 
was buried with it. If this were the fact, then 
he might in time dig out. He must cut a 
passage to liberty. Without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, he began his work. In an hour he 
could stand upright; in what he judged to be 
half a day he had made ten feet of passage. 

The ceaseless use of arm and wrist caused 
both to ache miserably. The end of the knife 
handle working in the palm of his hand caused 
it to bleed from ruptured blisters, which added 
to his wretchedness. But there was hope that 
they would see the goodly sun again. The 
stored heat constantly enlarged the opening, 
and caused a slush which soaked them both to 
the skin. 

Borden found trees crossed in endless con- 
fusion, and these often forced him to turn aside 
from a straight course. There was an advan- 
tage in this, however, for they made places 
where he could stand. Endlessly, Borden cut 
and slashed at the ice above him; inch by inch 
he worked his way. 

All means of knowing time were gone. He 
judged of this by the deepening ache in his 
shoulders and the weariness of his body. Yet, 
he allowed himself only brief periods of rest. 


A STAIR THAT WAS CRYSTAL 285 


after which he renewed the stabbing and cutting 
at the stubborn mass above him. Harrington 
was not to be outdone. He enlarged his place 
with the point of a broken board, meantime 
calling cheer to his companion, who constantly 
showered him with the snow which he cut away. 

Borden found it difficult to keep from grow- 
ing feverish and impatient. Despair hovered 
close. In his work he thought of many things. 
Above all, he wished for a chance to prove him- 
self. He had failed utterly in his effort to do 
right before, but there was a difference now. 

Of the change that had come to him, Borden 
had no clear idea. He knew peace where there 
had been mountainous weights of despair, and 
that in the balconies of his spirit strange night- 
ingales of joy were singing. The newness of 
his feelings sustained him, though his wrists 
were swollen and he felt a faintness at the 
pit of his stomach. When utter exhaustion 
came upon him, he rested upon some log around 
which he had burrowed. These periods were 
always short, and were followed by stretches 
of wearisome toil, in which the sheath-knife ate 
its way into the pack. 

A torturing headache came to him, and a 
shortness of breath, while his neck began to 
-swell from the cramp of looking upward. His 
shoulders and arms drew into painful knots. 


286 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Certainly he had been digging for days. He 
measured the distance he made while he 
breathed sixty times ; then he reckoned the 
length of the passage, and divided roughly. 
According to this, he had been at work two days 
and two nights. 

But there were things to encourage him. 
He had reached a place where he could scarcely 
hear the voice of Harrington. Then, he 
breathed with less difficulty. The snow must 
be looser. If it was, he was nearing the top. 
He began to strain his eyes for the faintest 
reflection, but hours went by before it came, a 
dim and uncertain glow. 

At last the pale glint began to show through 
the roof of his grave. The end of his task was 
in sight; soon he would be free. Hope drove the 
ache from his stiffened body. The wounds in 
his hands were forgotten. Every slash of his 
knife increased the brightness above him. He 
could see his hands now, moving like a shadow 
over the lighter surface. It was difficult to keep 
from dropping the knife, his fingers were so stiff. 
Then, blessed moment! the blade went through. 
A flood of cold air struck his face, and he stood 
still gulping in the delicious element. A rush of 
poisonous heat passed him from below. 

Revived, Borden let himself down the open- 
ing, and found his companion drinking the air. 


A STAIR THAT WAS CRYSTAL 287 


He was weak, but cheerful. Placing the 
wounded man above him, Borden helped him 
up the passageway, till, with feelings too full 
for speech, they lay panting on the top of the 
slide, the sky above them, and the crisp air 
filling their lungs. 


XXIV 


MILES THAT WERE LONG 

B Y the change from rain and Chinook to 
clear sky and crisp cold, Borden knew that 
at least three days had passed while he was 
digging out, but in that time he had cut his way 
through more than a hundred feet of packed 
snow. 

Turning, he peered intently into the hole 
out of which they had come. 

“That represents a million stabs, Jack, if 
not two of them, ,, he commented. 

Harrington tried to smile, in spite of his 
weakness. Borden looked at him intently. 

“It represents more than that, for by it I 
have climbed out of — hell! I went up that trail 
to find you, to do — God forgive me — what I 
never thought I could plan to do under any 
circumstances — to kill you! Then, I came to 
my senses. It was when I saw the red spot 
growing larger on the snow. That blot seemed 
to be in my brain. In that moment the Infinite 
spoke, and I heard. For five awful minutes I 

knew how Cain felt. Then I tried to forget; 
288 


MILES THAT WERE LONG 


289 


but, when the darkness came and I was alone 
with my conscience, it all came back. It seemed 
the universe had turned sheriff to hunt me 
down. All I had felt of hate and bitterness 
gave way to self-condemnation. I despised, I 
loathed myself for a fool and a devil. All the 
wickedness of my life stared me in the face like 
a gorgon. I sweated blood, Jack; and I’m not 
ashamed to tell you — I prayed! I didn’t know 
just how to get at it, but I did the best I could, 
and it seemed to count. But the condemnation 
is past, and the world seems altogether new. 
You see, Jack, I had a good mother, and she 
taught me how a man ought to live. Those 
things stick! When I needed her most she died. 
I went wild after that. 

“When I saw her , I felt something prompt 
me to do better, and I did try in a selfish way. 
Then came the trip to the lake, and what hap- 
pened there shook my confidence; at least, I 
tried to make myself believe it did. But I loved 
her, Jack, I loved her. I feel honored to say so. 
Who could keep from it? And I love her now; 
but all that is gone forever. Then came the 
worst — you had asked her to be your wife, and, 
from what I heard, I believed you had not been 
rejected. It was after that I determined 
to save her from a fatal mistake, and at the 
same time take the toll of my own misery. Don’t 


290 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


think hard of me, Jack; but I have stood under 
the pines and listened to your guitar till it 
seemed the very stars burned red in their 
sockets. It maddened me to hear her laughter, 
echoing down the slope, for I thought you were 
deceiving her. Now I can see I was a fool; we 
were both fools. What reason had I to think 
I could win her love? I am saying this, Har- 
rington, because I want you to understand. I 
was not myself that day. But I am changed. 
I can not explain it; I do not understand it, but 
I think she would. Anyway, it’s no more Bald 
Eagle for me.” 

“It heads me off, Borden,” said Harrington, 
looking at his companion in a bewildered way. 

Borden broke into the first carefree laughter 
he had known in months. 

“Does it show on me, Jack? I tell you, the 
very trees look different. But I wronged you, 
and when I get to camp I will let the law take 
its course; that would be right.” 

Harrington felt for and pressed Borden’s 
hand. 

“And that’s just the thing you won’t do. 
Look at that hole ; look at your swollen muscles 1 
We’ll call it square. I, too, was an idiot. What 
right did I, a dog salmon of the Seven Seas, 
have to think I could win that glorious creature, 
or climb into the same heaven with such a star? 


MILES THAT WERE LONG 


291 


Bah! so much for self-conceit. She never felt 
so much as a firefly spark of anything for me 
but the interest of a great-hearted woman for 
one who needed a flash of light to show him the 
way. We were fools, Borden; confound it, we 
were fools ! Now, let us shake and call it even. ,, 

The hands of the men closed over each 
other, and the eyes of both were dim. Mastery 
had come to Borden at last. The old life 
dropped from him like an unclean garment, and 
peace spread itself upon his heart. 

Suddenly the men remembered that they 
were hungry. Borden moved about to ease his 
cramped muscles. He was not wholly exhausted ; 
the fresh air had restored him immediately; but 
when Harrington tried to get to his feet, he 
found that a sprained ankle made it impossible 
for him to walk. He staggered, and would have 
fallen, had not Borden caught him. 

“The log squeezed my foot pretty hard, and 
I feel used up from bruises, but I’ll make a try 
of it,” said Jack, tenaciously. 

Pale from pain, the debonair man struggled 
onward through the deep snow, but finally gave 
it up and sank exhausted. 

“Can’t do it, Borden,” he said, with a smile. 
“Go on and leave me; I’ll be all right.” 

“I’ll never do that!” Borden replied emphat- 
ically. “I’ll carry you.” 


292 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“It’s ten miles to camp, and the trail has 
not been broken, only what you did coming up. 
You can't do it." 

“There's always something left in my body 
for a case of emergency. What I have to do I 
can do." 

“But you can't," Harrington protested. 

“Can't, man! I've got to, that's all! Do 
you suppose I'll leave you here to die? Get on 
my back." 

Taking the belt and shoulder-straps from 
Harrington's pack, Borden made a loop, in 
which he placed the wounded man. Seated in 
the sag, with his head over Borden's shoulders, 
they began their battle with the snow. When 
night fell once more they had not ploughed 
their way through a mile of the stubborn 
element. Many packed places in that distance 
showed where Borden had rested with his 
burden. 

Another cabin in the canyon offered shelter, 
and some flour and tea found in a box restored 
their waning strength. Then, kindling a fire, 
both men sank down and slept the sleep of 
weariness. 


XXV 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 

O ORDEN awoke to finding a blinding snow- 
*■-' storm raging. The outlook was most for- 
bidding. Clouds of fine particles, which cut the 
face like a knife, swirled in blinding eddies 
across the vision. The storm was not over, and 
to remain where they were meant starvation. 
There was nothing to do but battle on. 

Harrington's foot Was much swollen, and 
his other injuries made it necessary that he get 
aid as soon as possible. Borden went out and 
faced the wind; it was bitter cold, and the snow 
stung like a serpent's tooth. He concluded to 
leave his companion in the cabin and go for 
help, but when he returned he found him mut- 
tering incoherently, and knew that fever had 
made him delirious. There was nothing for it 
but to struggle on, for there was no way to 
make the cabin secure as a prison. 

No time was to be lost, for every hour the 
storm added to the depth of the snow, and nine 
miles stretched between them and the hospitality 
of the camp. As he looked out into the blinding 

293 


294 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


cloud, Borden realized fully the almost super- 
human task before him. Could he do it? that 
was the question. If it were not in his body, 
then they would perish together. It was the 
fruit of his own sin, and he might have to reap 
to the utmost. 

Muttering, and flushed with fever, Harring- 
ton was forced into the straps, and the next 
minute they were in the crash of the wind, 
bearing down the mountain through the hip- 
deep element. 

Fortunately, the windings of the trail could 
be seen through grove and thicket, so that Bor- 
den was sure of his way. Then, too, his pas- 
sage up through the first fall of snow helped to 
lessen the toil and make it easier to follow the 
path. 

Wild and far the wind swept the hissing 
cloud through the smothered forest. Nature 
spoke with an acrid, belligerent whine. The 
wolf packs of the gale were running high, their 
white fangs bared. Could anything live in such 
anarchy? Yet, there was heart-beat on the 
trail. Something that heaved and moaned and 
swung, right and left, slowly wallowing a 
trough through the leagues of measureless 
white. The shrill horses of the blast neighed 
on the ridges, and the mail of the ice crashed 
on the cliffs. 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


295 


Borden realized that he was launched upon 
a venture where to fear was to die. If he 
hesitated, he would be sucked down by envelop- 
ing furies. In his extremity he asked help of 
Heaven. He was struggling through a seething 
vortex of howling malediction. He, a lone man, 
was matched against the storm; he was battling 
the universe. Why not sink down in the 
smother and die ? That was what his over- 
wrought nerves wanted him to do. But life, 
too, was assertive, and it mocked at death, bit 
viciously at his frayed energies, and drove him 
to further effort. 

In the terrible congestion through which he 
moved, Borden felt the touch of something that 
was heartless; something that rode the blast like 
a fiend; it slashed the wilderness horribly. The 
sound in the forest was like a woman wailing 
for her dead. 

Finally he seemed to lose all sense of time 
and distance; there was only the swish of cut- 
ting particles, and the muttering thing on his 
back — the thing that was crushing him to the 
earth. There were still miles of snow ahead, 
but the lessening of the depth told him that he 
had passed over half the way. His achmg body 
was quick to note this. He ceased to think of 
the end of the trail, and moved from one object 
to another as points marking his progress. 


296 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Should he leave Harrington and go on alone? 
Never! They would reach safety together, or 
perish in the same drift. Side by side they 
would find their bones when the spring returned 
to weave them round with flowers. 

Gradually Borden lost feeling in his stiffened 
limbs. That they were obeying the mandates 
of his will he knew, for he could see them 
plunging ahead turn by turn. Always there 
was the mastery over a few feet of the yielding 
element, but after that, endless measures of the 
same element to be subdued. The vastness of 
it was maddening. Finally, the burden on his 
shoulders seemed to be part of his own inert 
body. He marveled that he could move. But 
he was still able to send back his challenge to 
fiend and fury. When he could take no more 
steps, he would sink down and the fiends could 
have their moment to laugh, but he would laugh 
as well. It was a soul challenging time and 
immensity. 

In the struggle his hat had been lost, and 
his hair was crusted with sleet and masses of 
ice. His steaming body was crusted in a creak- 
ing mail. Still, he was moving. He knew that 
because the objects on which he fixed his eye 
came gradually to meet him. That small tree 
was fifty yards ahead . . . after while it was 
beside him. 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


297 


In this condition, Borden continued to obey 
the cosmic instinct to live. Against this was 
pitted the elemental fury of storm and wind and 
cold. Around him was the measureless vastness 
of the hills, wrapped in white death. Never 
before had he felt so utterly overmatched. 
He was so small, so weak, compared to the 
fetterless forces which assailed him. All was 
so merciless, so unfeeling. The trees, which he 
had always looked upon as his friends, seemed 
to consign him to the destruction which was 
crushing them. The overhanging rocks mocked 
him as he passed. All he saw or touched was 
turned to be his enemy. 

Night fell early, adding to his desperate con- 
dition. The objects about him were obliterated 
in a nebulous blur. All day he had been facing 
the impossible; now his exhausted body began 
to call for rest in every fiber. He grew dizzy. 
There seemed little left but a center of reason, 
which instinctively forced him to further exer- 
tion. On his back was the same shuddering 
burden that had crushed him in the morning. 
The thought of death became a luxury. Were 
it not for that one spark within him which the 
storm could not quench he would stretch his 
stiffened hands to the grim monster and tell him 
to take his toll. But, no; that vital, dominant 
something would not give up. He must fight — 


298 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


fight to the last gasp and the last snapped fiber. 
He ground his teeth in terrible exhaustion. 
Something that was like the old smile settled 
upon his chilled lips, and he went on. Deter- 
mination, grim and unyielding, drove him to the 
effort which every step cost him. 

In the darkness he fell against trees and 
into holes. From these accidents he rose, stag- 
gering and gasping. His breath had become a 
sob. In this manner he seemed to pass through 
cycles ,of torture. Staggering and blind, he 
began to groan his complaint through set teeth 
and swollen lips. 

The hours went by, measures of misery. 
Borden could not keep any idea of time. There 
were little seasons of relief when he sank down 
to rest. Then came the reviving twinge in every 
fiber, as he staggered to his feet to begin again 
the maddening struggle with death. 

Sometimes he grasped small trees and leaned 
forward to rest. Again, he sank upon some log 
over which he struggled. That he had covered 
considerable distance he knew, because the snow 
had decreased very much in depth. 

Had Borden been struggling to save his own 
life, he would not have considered it worth the 
effort he was putting forth. But that muttering 
thing on his back ... he must save it. After 
all, it was his own doings. This was the fruit 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


299 


of the evil tree which he had planted, and he 
must eat it to the last bitter rind. 

Once he turned, to find gray forms moving 
after him through the trough his body had 
made. Vaguely he knew them to be wolves, 
starved into facing the storm. Harrington 
always carried a revolver under his coat. He 
searched and found it, faced about, and, holding 
it in his stiffened hands, fired at three paces, 
once, twice, three times. The rest of the gray 
forms began the feast provided by his aim. An 
hour later he repeated the maneuver, and was 
troubled no more. 

The wind rose. There was a louder com- 
plaint in the forest, and the darkness seemed 
to grow more tense. Borden leaned against a 
tree to rest. He dared not sit down, lest he be 
unable to rise with his burden. At that instant 
something wavered before his blurred vision. 
In the denseness it danced like a will-o’-the- 
wisp. 

At first he thought the storm had broken 
and that he was watching a star. But on second 
thought he knew this could not be, for the slash- 
ing particles were as cruel as ever. Then he 
roused himself and peered toward the tiny 
point. It could only be that! The light of 
the Red Warrior mill; the camp was just under 
that speck. There was something left in him 


300 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


which stirred to further action. He was moving 
again. Heavily he forced his feet into the 
mocking weariness before him. 

Perhaps Harrington was dead! No. He 
made out the old shiver. The man was making 
a brave struggle for life. For the thousandth 
time Borden sank in the snow to rest. Could 
he ever get up? He doubted it. Why not give 
up? It would be best to die there and have it 
over. * He had been a fool, anyway. Then 
came the recollection of his desire to kill, and 
that out of that had come all this suffering. 
He had poured his own glass with bitterness, 
and he would drain it to the lees. 

Grim and set of jaw, he got to his feet. 
Now he was moving again, every breath a 
moan. His lips opened and closed with every 
heave of his lungs, and froth clogged them 
which was pink with blood. At this moment 
Borden felt the stir of the old spirit which had 
brought him the victory in a hundred fights. 
It had turned defeat into success when he was 
overmatched, and it saved him now. Where 
other men gave up, he began to fight the more 
desperately, and here, where an army of others 
would have yielded to the tempest, he girded 
himself for one more desperate effort. 

Back to his cheeks came the old bite of the 
white teeth and the old choke of the whirling 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


301 


clouds. The same tantalizing mockery clung to 
his aching feet. With a howl, the wind packs 
took up the hunt for his life, and all the fiends 
returned. Borden rose against them with un- 
yielding determination. Nightmare and ruin 
went abroad on black wings. Now he was talk- 
ing aloud of his sufiFerings. He realized by this 
that he was far gone. He laughed and went on. 

How he reached it he never knew, but he 
suddenly found himself walking in a broken 
trail. The camp was just before him.- The 
miners had been going and coming from their 
cabins that evening. Borden blessed them from 
his soul. The pack at his hips, the mockery at 
his feet, were gone; only remained the faintness 
and the deathlike exhaustion, and the squelch of 
the body on his back; also, a terrible nausea, as 
from the loss of blood. 

How long he was staggering and plunging 
down the trail he could not tell. When he 
remembered clearly, he was grasping a porch 
post to keep from falling, and many men were 
about him. The crushing weight was gone from 
his shoulders, and familiar voices were speaking 
encouragement in his ears. The battle with 
storm and wind was over! Harrington’s life 
was saved — the very life he had climbed the 
mountain to take. 

No street fight or saloon fray ever stirred 


302 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


the camp of Deadman as the appearance of 
Borden with his burden, crusted in snow and 
ice. With his hair matted and frozen in a mass, 
and his brows hanging with sleet, he had seemed 
to them as some arrival from the caverns of 
horror. His eyes had looked at them wildly, 
and he muttered through lips covered with 
froth. In a minute the saloons were empty, and 
hundreds of miners thronged about the strange 
pair. 

“By the nine gods! If it ain't Borden and 
Jack Harrington!" bawled Burke. “What the 
devil does this mean?" 

With one swing of his ponderous arms, 
Burke lifted the unconscious man from the 
straps, and ten minutes later Harrington was 
snug and warm in a bed. True to his nature, 
Borden refused aid in getting to his cabin. 
Calling for a cup of coffee, he gulped the deli- 
cious liquid, and then staggered up the trail, 
with the big-hearted Kelly close at his side. 
Once in the cabin, a pot of the same stimulant 
was set simmering, and elk steaks were soon 
frying in a skillet. Borden ate sparingly, and, 
throwing his soaked clothing from him, stretched 
himself on his bunk and sank into dreamless 
unconsciousness. 

With the miner's belief in the virtues of 
liquor, Kelly had dashed into a saloon for a 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


303 


flask of brandy; but Borden had savagely 
refused to drink it, and his partner had gone 
for the coffee, wondering at this strange action 
of his friend. 

Seated near him, Kelly filtered broth through 
Borden’s lips at intervals. Burke and Old 
Lucky came the next morning to see how he 
was, and found him in a sleep that was death- 
like in its profoundness. 


XXVI 


A LONELY CABIN 

B ORDEN slept on through two nights and a 
day. When he awoke, he found himself 
rested, but stiffened in every joint. He got up, 
dressed, and, with the appetite of a wolf, fell 
upon the food Kelly had prepared. His splendid 
body had responded immediately to nourish- 
ment, and he was soon well on the way to his 
old condition of superb strength and rugged 
vigor. 

That night, when the snow had ceased to 
fall, and the great stars hung low in the steel- 
blue ether, Borden grew communicative and 
told Kelly all that had happened. Not the 
slightest detail was left out. Beginning at the 
first, he went through all the moods which had 
led to the last feverish one, in which he had 
planned to take life. Then came the recital of 
the terrible condemnation which followed his 
sin ; the long struggle with the packed slide, and 
the battle with the snow. 

Kelly listened intently, conscious of nothing 
so much as that there was indeed a great change 

304 


A LONELY CABIN 


305 


in his partner. Never before had he spoken 
this way of himself, or what he did. With open 
face, Borden confessed that he had looked up 
in his distress, and that peace had followed. 
Jim listened with open eyes. It had not been 
this way before. Deep in his heart he was glad 
— glad for Borden’s sake, and his own, for he 
regretted what he had said before. 

“Something’s struck you, Bord; I don’t 
know just what, but you’re not like you were; 
and here’s my hand, old pard, for luck. It does 
my Irish soul good to see you getting a new 
start. This sounds all right to me!” Kelly 
offered his hand across the table and Borden 
gripped it warmly. 

“Does it show on me, Jim? I hope so, for 
I feel good inside. I made a botch of it before. 
I meant all right, but I was acting from selfish- 
ness, and, of course — failed. I never thought 
that my wickedness was against God. I wanted 
to do what she would approve, you see? But 
in this struggle I saw only the fearful sin of my 
life; the days and nights of wickedness. I tell 
you, Jim, that hole up there represents more 
than getting out of a snowslide. When I 
crawled out of it, I crept put of the old life into 
a new one. The Bald Eagle will see me no 
more! From this on I fight, not with men, but 
for them — understand?” 


306 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“I guess so,” Jim replied, getting up to wash 
the dishes. 

“Think I’ll just step up the trail and tell her 
all about it, and what a fool I’ve been. She will 
understand it all, and I know she will be kind. 
Don't get a wrong notion, Jim; it's not like it 
was before. I'll prove that to you beyond back 
talk. But somehow I believe she would be glad 
to hear about it — just as a friend.” 

The time had come to test Borden. Kelly 
had waited for it from the moment his partner 
had told of his determinations. 

“That will be impossible, Borden, for she is 
gone!” Jim looked straight into the eyes which 
seemed searching his very soul. 

“Gone where ?” The words were heavy with 
surprise and disappointment. 

“East. Left after the first storm. They 
are on the railroad by this time. I didn't see 
Miss Truxton before she left; I was up at the 
mine; but she left a farewell for me with The 
Color. She didn’t forget you, either, for she 
gave the girl this for me to hand to you.” 

Borden took the note and opened it with 
slow fingers. The bit of white seemed sacred. 
On it was written, in a delicate hand, a mere 
fragment: 

“Though ye have lien among the pots, yet 
shall ye be as the wings of a dove covered 


A LONELY CABIN 


307 


with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold.” 

Borden folded the paper very slowly, very 
deliberately, and placed it in his pocket. 

“It's all Greek to me. I tried to make it 
out, but gave it up.” Kelly shook his head 
doubtfully. “Guess Fm thick. How does it 
strike you?” 

“I understand it,” Borden replied, looking 
out over the dazzling white, reaching endlessly 
on over the world. After a time he turned 
to Jim. 

“When is she coming back?” 

“Don’t know. Perhaps never. Think they’ve 
left for good. The Queen went with them. I 
understand she has folks back there. I asked 
The Color about it, and it seems that Miss 
Truxton said nothing of ever returning to the 
hills. Lucky says the superintendent has closed 
up his business, and will not need to come back. 
But all this has nothing to do with what you 
told me, Borden,” Jim added decidedly, wishing 
to test his partner. 

“It won’t,” said Borden, dropping into a 
seat by the window. 

“I’m going down and tell Jack you are all 
right. He has sent up a couple of times asking 
about you. Says there ain’t such a man above 
ground as you, and not one worthy even to 
strike drill for you. Get that? I think of 


308 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


punching his head for the reflection. Behave 
yourself till I get back.” 

Jim slid into his coat and went down the 
trail with something in his stride that was 
unusual. 

Left alone, Borden sat for some time think- 
ing. After all, there seemed little left in the 
hills since Gene Truxton had gone. With 
cleared vision he saw her worth, and knew that 
he loved her with all his nature. Purified seven 
times by the furnace through which he had 
passed, nothing remained now but the clear, 
clean passion which exalted him. And that love 
never could change! Time might pass; the 
gray might come to his temples; age dim his 
glance and bow his frame; but the love he felt 
for Gene Truxton would always shine like opal 
fire at the core of his being. That face, with its 
warm, clean beauty, framed in a spraying cloud 
of wind-blown hair, must ever bend above the 
mercy-seat of his heart. Those deep eyes, with 
their wavering, dreamy wonder, would be to 
him as stars very clear and pure. 

A hunger came to Borden's heart ; something 
that mellowed and made for a love of right. 
Obeying an impulse, he went up the trail. The 
snow lay deep on each side. The young hem- 
locks stood smothered in the piled whiteness. 
Each slender pyramid seemed touched with the 


A LONELY CABIN 


309 


pensive sadness which lay upon his own soul. 

At the door of the cabin he stood looking 
at the mark in the drift caused by swinging it 
forth and back as the snow fell. A later fall 
had partly filled the groove, accentuating the 
loneliness and emptiness of the place. 

He entered almost ' reverently, and stood 
with uncovered head in the center of the room. 
The stove shone with a perfect polish, and the 
rough floor was not marred by a single stain. 
There were some pictures on the walls she had 
put up to relieve their barren appearance. The 
chairs stood about as if waiting to receive the 
familiar forms. At the window a dead vine 
still clung to a string by which she had led it 
in a lost June. The spell of her personality 
was in the place. All was sacred because of it. 
He could have touched every object with his 
lips. Something very tender played like sun- 
shine around his heart. He had seen her on the 
other side of the table, cool and clean, her head 
crowning the fair neck like a queen's. With all 
this there had been a natural humility born of 
a deeply spiritual nature. Drawing a chair to 
the opposite side, he sat down, while he tried to 
imagine her as she looked that day. 

As he called up the wavering image, a flood 
of feeling passed over him and his eyes be- 
came dim. ( Stretching his hands across the 


310 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


table, he cried out of the fullness of his soul: 

“Oh, Gene, Gene! The months and years 
will be long without you! God help me!” 

For a long time he sat, trying to adjust him- 
self to the emptiness which encompassed him. 
Wearily he bowed his face upon his arms, and 
remained in position for a long time. A touch 
recalled him, and, looking up, he saw Jim 
bending over him, a light in his eyes that was 
good. 

“Come back to the cabin, old fellow, and 
remember, I understand. I wish it might have 
all been different.” 

As Borden stood up, the Irishman’s hand 
slid into his with a sympathetic pressure; then 
they went down the trail together. 


XXVII 


THE MOTTO AT THE MINERS’ REST 

T HAT night, Borden and Kelly talked frank- 
ly, as men with great decisions upon them. 
In the glow of his vision, Borden spoke seri- 
ously of the dark side of Deadman. There was 
scarlet excess; the saloons were wallows; the 
dance-halls flamed with wickedness; the drunk- 
enness was a stew to be despised. There was 
plenty of crime, too, for the graveyard had new 
boards to mark the places where men were 
buried who had gone down gun in hand. 

As a man who reviews himself in his own 
death-chamber, Borden went over the black 
catalogue, holding himself responsible for a 
large share of it. Men he had started on the 
swift current which sweeps out to a shoreless 
sea had crashed on the rocks, and had gone 
down. With these he put another list — those 
who were still afloat. These would join their 
comrades under the drifts soon, if something 
was not done. The whirlpools were already 
sucking them down, and they would be gone if 
some one did not lend a hand. 

311 


312 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Jim listened intently, but said little. Later, 
when Borden lay full length on his bed, his eyes 
turned to the window, through which he could 
see the stars spilling down the vast sky spaces, 
he felt Jim near him. Borden turned toward' 
him and waited. 

“I say, Bord, we've been up the trail to- 
gether, " he began. “We've taken a full course 
in the college of Hard Knocks, sure as you live. 
Mind when we starved a week over on the 
Grizzly Bear? And the time we ate our leggins 
down Ophir way? Then, I take it you hain't 
forgotten the time we tramped it, bed and picks, 
from Silver City to Ruby Gulch, with nothing to 
eat but jack-rabbits and flour. Well, I've been 
thinking of these things while you were talking. 
Remember when you nursed me in the lone cabin 
on the Rattlesnake when I had spotted fever? 
Now, these things are what make partners stick 
together, and I'm going to stick to you. Get me? 
I see that something has struck you, good and 
hard. I don't just know what it is, but you're 
hit, and hit square, and I'm mighty glad of it. 
Stay with it! Do you hear? Stay with it!" 

Borden would have spoken, but Kelly turned 
on him abruptly. 

“Shut up!" he thundered. “What I was 
going to say before you interrupted me was 
this: It wouldn't hurt Jim Kelly to stop long 


MOTTO AT THE MINERS’ REST 313 


enough to see if he is winning or losing in the 
game, and here’s my hand, old pard, that I’ll go 
along with you, as far as I know how, so long 
as you keep your stakes up on this claim. The 
Color thinks I ought to cut the old pace out, and 
I guess she’s about right.” 

Without a word, Borden gripped the hand 
held toward him with both of his, and the com- 
pact was sealed. Ten minutes later, Kelly’s 
heavy breathing told that he had laid aside all 
serious thoughts till morning. 

For some time Borden lay looking out on 
the winter night. His thoughts were of the 
girl who had influenced his life so vitally. She 
had come into it like a fair angel, sat for a time 
under the wild upas which cast its shadow over 
his life, and departed. With the hunger which 
men’s hearts sometimes know he wished for her. 
But she could not come to him. Would his 
eyes ever again look into hers ? Oppressed 
beyond measure with the thought of his loss, he 
fell into a profound sleep till morning. 

Borden rose, and, after an hour’s chat with 
Kelly, who seemed unusually cheerful, he walked 
down to the Miners’ Rest, where Laughing 
Brookie was putting his dog through a series 
of new tricks, to the great amusement of some 
newcomers who had arrived in camp the night 
before. The old man greeted him with great 


314 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


good will, and launched into a laughing eulogy 
on the merits and influence of the place, main- 
taining his character by haw-hawing between 
statements. 

Bringing out an old ledger, he showed Bor- 
den a crude record of those who had attended, 
and the number of letters written from the 
tables. 

“She sure hit the right idea when she opened 
up this shack,” the old man chuckled. “There's 
a lot of us old chaps who are tired of the Bald 
Eagle sort of existence, and we enjoy the 
change. Sure, we get a dry tongue for whisky 
now and then; that is, I know I do, and the 
others are about the same ; but there's that 
drinkin'-spout, and a gulp or so helps out so a 
fellar can stand it. The only reason I didn't get 
at this thing before was because there wasn't 
no place to go but to the Moose Head and the 
Bald Eagle, and when you git in there you know 
what comes next. There’d be Old Lucky, pickled 
in the poison thirty years ago, and Sluicy, with 
the rest of the bar-flies, hangin' around for a 
drink. Well, the next Brookie'd know he 
wouldn't know anything; that's why I told her 
there ought to be some place where a man could 
slide in without seein' a barkeep or a bottle. 
Why, hang it all, man! I've seen letters twisted 
in the very shine of the glasses ; yes, sir, and 


MOTTO AT THE MINERS’ REST 315 


they spelled out, ‘Come and drink’; and B rookie 
alius done just that — ” 

“You are right,” Borden interrupted. “I 
see a good many things now I never stumbled 
onto before.” The old man stared at his com- 
panion without understanding, then continued: 
“Things is different with Brookie since she 
come. Ain’t she the blessedest angel that ever 
lived? And here she’s clean gone for good. 
Far as I can find out, she don’t calcalate to come 
back. Showed up here one day and said, 
‘So-long,’ and that ended it. Seems the old 
lady got homesick, so they went out after the 
first breakin’ of the road.” 

“And she didn’t say when she was coming 
back?” Borden asked, in what appeared to be 
slight interest. 

“No-o-o, she didn’t. Said her dad’s business 
was fixed up all around, and that he could go. 
I axed The Color about it t’other day, and she 
said they calcalated to travel South this winter 
and spring, then go somewhere else. That’s all 
I know. Fact is, she’s too good for this sort of 
life, and for her sake I was glad to see her go. 
But, there wa’n’t nothin’ proud about her. 
Why, confound it, man, look at an old loafer 
like me! And yet she’d come down here and 
treat me like I was related to her, and was her 
kin. Look at me, I say! Came right in and 


316 


THE ANGEL O' DEADMAN 


nussed me back to life, and then trusted me; 
that's it, trusted me, and gave me charge o’ 
this place. God A’mighty bless her for all 
that!" Brookie laughed, while he dug an 
ancient bandana into each eye to obliterate all 
traces of sentiment. 

Borden was interested. Any reference to 
Gene Truxton was like music in his ears. 
Though he told himself that she never could be 
his, that they had met for the last time, yet this 
talk about her brought a sweet hunger to his 
heart. When he asked himself how he could 
pass the voiceless years without her, there was 
no answer, and he asked help from whence his 
peace and change had come. 

“I tell you, Borden, this place is a mighty 
^ fine thing. Why, the boys come down here 
every night and play checkers and swap yarns; 
and it keeps a lot o' them from getting the Bald 
Eagle fever and spendin' what ought to go to 
their families. There's been a many a chap in 
here who’d not wrote home for months, and 
when he’d see the writin’ stuff there, why, down 
he'd go, and off'd go a letter on the fust stage, 
and, like as not, some money in it. But the 
place ain't big enough, that's the trouble. 
There's a lot o' things that ought-a be done, and 
if they was we'd run the saloons a mighty close 
heat for first place." 


MOTTO AT THE MINERS’ REST 317 


“What are they?” Borden dropped into a 
chair and drew a slip of paper toward him. 
“You see, B rookie, I have something more than 
I need to live on, and, if the place needs fixing 
up a bit, we will, that’s all.” 

B rookie laughed excessively. “Well, now, 
Borden, it’s jest like ye to do that for us old 
grizzlies, and we appreciate it; for, mind ye, 
young fellar, I ain’t alius been an old bum like 
I am now. I ust to go to meetin’ with my old 
mother, and I can see her hands a-layin’ in her 
lap, with somethin’ on her face that made me 
think o’ God. I reckon ye never thought that 
I didn’t tech liquor till after I was twenty-past? 
You see, it might all a-been different if it hadn’t 
a-been for what happened twixt Mary — and — 
me. Just a misunderstanding with a nose or 
two put in where they had no business, and our 
little dream run out. 

“But I liked her, Borden, I did, and she 
liked me, for I wa’n’t an old soak them days. 
Mother ust to say I was a handsome chap, but 
you know how mothers is. Mary didn’t under- 
stand, and I was a hot-headed fool, and that 
ruined everything. I went away for three 
years, and when I got better notions and went 
back, Mary was dead. Then I didn’t care ; 
just went bad and — here I am. Didn’t intend 
to tell ye this. I ax your pardon. It’s just 


318 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


a little from an old man's life. Let it go." 

Brookie sat looking out of the window on 
the snow-piled mountains, a reminiscent light 
on his face, and Borden, gazing upon him, saw 
what made him feel a deep sense of comradeship 
for the old man, for he, too, had suffered; he, 
too, had been a fool. 

“But we must talk about what is needed 
here," Borden remarked, and the old man 
recalled himself with a laugh. 

“I’ll name over a few things and you can 
put ’em down. First, it ought to be twict as big 
as it is. Lots o’ the boys go away because there 
ain’t chairs for them. Then, there’s a lot o’ 
chaps who want a place to spread their blankets ; 
so it strikes me that about fifty places for bunks, 
and a hundred chairs, with a big room on this 
side, is about what is wanted. Then, we need a 
safe, where the boys could put their belongings. 
That would keep the saloons from gittin’ what 
ought to go East to wives and children. What 
I want is to git these things in here ahead of the 
Bald Eagle stew. I can’t think of any more 
now." 

While Brookie was speaking, Borden was 
thinking fast. In the vision which had opened 
to him, he saw a splendid opportunity for the 
enlargement of Gene Truxton’s idea on a scale 
that would dominate the camp, and swing its 


MOTTO AT THE MINERS’ REST 319 


moral tone to a higher level. A great field of 
service had opened, and with largeness of heart 
he entered it with a vim. 

“I will work it out, Brookie,” he said, rising. 
“But first the place must have a motto.” 

Two days later, Borden was leaning over 
one of the tables at the Miners’ Rest, trying to 
explain a puzzling passage to B rookie and Old 
Lucky. It was the motto of the place, and it 
read: 

“Though ye have lien among the pots, yet 
shall ye be as the wings of a dove covered with 
silver, and her feathers with yellow gold.” 


XXVIII 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 

D EADMAN awoke to the fact that some- 
thing out of the ordinary was happening 

in it. 

Lumber was fished from under mountains 
of snow, and sent to the Miners' Rest on sleds. 
A force of men began to fashion this into ample 
wings to the old log building. On one side a 
long hall was built and partioned into comfort- 
able rooms. At the back, Borden put bathing 
facilities, and on the other side a gymnasium. 
Boxing was to be allowed under strict rules. 
Lifting-weights of all sizes were prepared. More 
tables were brought in, with an ample number of 
chairs. A safe was found which would answer 
the purpose. Horizontal bars were erected. 
Mats were put in for wrestling. On one side 
of the room was a sawdust pit for pitching 
weights. This hall, or room, was large and 
comfortable. Stoves were placed at each end. 

When it was complete, Borden brought to- 
gether the musicians of the camp and formed 
them into a string band. This would help hold 

320 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 


321 


the feverish crowd. But that which proved the 
greatest delight was a Cornish quartet. 

The plan was a success from the first, and 
this beyond Borden’s most sanguine expectations. 
Within three weeks the saloon-keepers began to 
feel the drain, and the dance-halls grew less 
noisy. Those who had hailed Borden as a royal 
fellow, a knight of Vagabondia, now spoke of 
him as a meddler in other men’s business. Many 
who had been glib of tongue ceased to be cor- 
dial, and the gamblers clicked their chips at the 
tables with empty chairs around them. Brookie 
overworked his dog that he might help hold the 
interest. 

The bunks were always full, and there was 
a ceaseless splash in the bathtubs. Men strode 
in at all hours to write letters, and talk over the 
events of the day, usually the latest strike in 
some of the tunnels or a fight in one of the 
saloons. The great stoves roared their welcome, 
crammed with spruce wood, and Brookie 
laughed with boundless satisfaction. 

At night men wrestled, pitched the weight, 
boxed, or listened to lusty male voices launched 
on songs full of the sentiment of home and life’s 
highest hopes. There was one obligation asked 
of those who cared to enjoy the Miners’ Rest, 
which was that they would agree to keep out of 
the saloons. But this was required of them only 


322 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


after sufficient time had passed for the influence 
of the better conditions to work. Borden had 
feared that this might prove a drawback to the 
success of the venture, but found that those who 
were unwilling to comply with it were very few. 
They had felt the need of such a place, and 
there, under the lights, having part in games 
and good-natured feats of physical emulation, 
they learned that they were by nature non- 
alcoholic. 

Borden stimulated a pride in the institution 
among them, and saw its fruits. As the long 
winter wore away, the crowds continued to 
come, and plans for a second enlargement were 
formed and carried out. The safe was always 
full of the earnings of the miners, who formed 
habits of saving, or sent their earnings to those 
dependent upon them back home. The different 
bars of the camp felt the falling off, and mal- 
edictions, brutal and deep, were heaped on Bor- 
den’s head, as well as the girl who had conceived 
this scheme for the miners. 

By common consent, Borden took the lead 
in all these gatherings. He was fitted for this, 
both by physical strength and leadership, to say 
nothing of that right which is recognized as 
going with money invested. To him men came 
with disputes over claims, or the divisions of 
outfits. In time, the miners began to feel the 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 


323 


place was theirs by right of donation, and they 
went out to talk for it, in the tunnels and in the 
cabins. 

“It's a thousand miles ahead of any neck- 
scorchin', liver-rottin’ saloon in this camp; and, 
as for Borden, he can whip you in a half a 
minute, and I can do it in a whole one, so shut 
your yap!” a miner had said to his companion 
in the stopes, when that individual had referred 
to the Rest as a petticoat institution and Borden 
as a granny. 

When told of these things, Borden passed 
them off with a laugh. Afterwards, he usually 
found a chance to see the critics and invite them 
in person. Many came, were delighted, and 
stayed. But nothing gave him a greater hold 
on the men than the care of the sick. Taken 
with liver disorders and fevers common to 
heavy eaters and the mountain air, he nursed 
them with the tenderness of a woman; and 
every man who felt his touch at the bunk-side 
got up to be his loyal friend through every 
report. Many a sufferer he brought back from 
the shadowy valley which his feet were enter- 
ing. When they were out of danger, he wrote 
letters for them, and, when they were “short,” 
gave them money to send to needy families. 
Some were taken out on the slope, under the 
pines, and while the wind' sang a funeral hymn 


324 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


among the icy branches he put them away, and 
marked the place with a board. The missionary 
had gone East for the winter, and such tasks 
fell naturally to Borden. A born leader, he 
went among the men, holding them by an uncon- 
scious power, and inspiring them to self-respect 
by his own example. Seated by the bunk, or in 
the tunnel, he spoke words for men in a man's 
way. Among those whom his influence reached 
was Burke. Worn down with long debauch, 
the giant lay at the edge of the unknown, 
battling for weeks the swarming demons which 
tormented him. 

When the danger was past, and he could 
understand, Borden sat with the great hand in 
his and spoke words that were barbed — words 
which held in the soul of the gorilla. 

Kelly had kept strictly to the vow he made 
to Borden, and The Color was delighted. The 
cabin of old Sluicy took on a neatness it never 
had known before, and the girl sang the day in 
and out. Gene had given her the piano, and 
over its keys she toiled with a devotion that did 
credit both to teacher and pupil. Jim never 
tired of talking about the change in the girl, 
and Borden, who loved — though now he never 
spoke it — the name of the one who had wrought 
this transformation, listened without comment, 
a great hunger in his eyes. 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 


325 


The big-hearted Irishman understood, and 
would repeat over and over the things Gene had 
written to The Color, but always there was 
missing the one thing for which Borden longed 
and waited — waited with no reason to expect it. 
There were details of trips by water and land, 
with shopping excursions in the big Eastern 
cities, but never a word about returning to the 
mountains. 

That winter, Brookie was thrown into a 
spasm of excitement by the reception of a let- 
ter from Gene, inquiring about the Miners' 
Rest, and himself personally. She had asked 
him to remember her to all who were interested 
in the institution. From man to man, Brookie 
went with his treasure. While they ran through 
it to please him, the old man would wax 
eloquent on the character of the writer. 

“I tell ye, chaps, she’s the blessedest angel 
ever bornd, and what she done for us old 
loafers proves it. There’s some as calls her 
‘Nugget,’ but I say she’s an angel — ‘The Angel 
O’ Deadman.’ ” 

The letter contained the information that 
several boxes of books were on the way. These 
were to be put in the Rest. The answer was 
written entirely by Brookie, under a cross-fire 
of jokes from the “old timers,” chief of which 
was Lucky. It is hardly necessary to say that 


326 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Kelly, who sat near to prompt, saw that two 
pages were filled with statements regarding 
Borden and what he was doing. There was a 
brief account of the snowslide experience and 
the long battle afterwards to get Harrington to 
camp. The Irishman knew this would be all 
the evidence needed of a change in his partner. 
There was more about what Borden was doing 
for the men of the camp. After an account of 
the latest and best tricks he had taught his dog, 
Brookie closed with an urgent request that she 
come back. The letter was duly sealed and 
addressed to a post-office down Boston way, 
with a demand in the corner that it be returned 
to Laughing Brookie, of Deadman, if not 
received. 

That night Borden and Kelly sat before the 
blazing fireplace, while Jim outlined the letter. 

“You shouldn’t have done it, Jim. It won’t 
interest her, for she will think it is like the other 
time I reformed,” Borden protested. 

From talking contemptuously of the Miners’ 
Rest, the saloon-keepers came to look upon the 
place as a dangerous institution, and one that 
was keeping much money from their tills, at the 
same time creating a strong sentiment against 
them. Bitterness grew apace. Secret meetings 
were held, which were reported promptly to 
Borden by the Ruby Kid, who had a way of 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 


327 


learning all that was going on. Many of the 
big spenders had practically dropped out, among 
them Jack Harrington, who reveled in the sports 
and books of the Rest. When questioned about 
the scar near his temple, he was in the habit of 
turning down the questioner with a laugh and 
the statement that scars generally went with 
snowslides. 

Old Lucky held out stoutly against becoming 
an active member of the Miners’ Rest. He 
prized his liberty, and he refused to sign it 
away. Besides, he’d only bring disgrace, for 
he had to have his “nip.” However, Bor- 
den, who was watching his old friend, knew 
that he spent much more time at the Rest than 
at the saloons. 

But if Borden watched Lucky, that indi- 
vidual as closely watched him. Sauntering into 
the place one night, the old man drew a chair 
up close to Brookie, and, indicating Borden with 
a jab of his thumb, expressed himself seriously, 
a thing quite uncommon to him. 

“I tell you, Brookie, there’s somethin’ hit 
that lad. He don’t look the same as he did 
down Bald Eagle way. He always was a model 
for good looks, but, hang me! I never see such 
a face as he has now. Looks like he’d seen 
God — and I think he has. None of that soft- 
ness which makes the missionary such a yap, 


328 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


but a look to him that makes one think of a 
Greek model — I used to know about them things, 
you understand. Well, Fm mighty glad this 
thing that has hit him didn’t take the blaze out 
of his eyes, nor that old, dangerous grin from 
his mouth, though I don’t think he’ll be hunting 
trouble any more. 

“But that ain’t what I wanted to talk about. 
What he’s doin’ ain’t pleasin’ the barkeeps any 
too well, and I have a notion that they’ll be 
plannin’ some devilment before long. Just keep 
an eye on ’em, Brookie, and don’t let ’em catch 
you noddin’, that’s all.” Lucky sauntered over 
to Borden and repeated the warning; then he 
went out into the glittering night. 

The star was leading kindly and clearly, and 
Borden set his purpose to follow its light. 
Quietly he worked out his plans, and when 
the time came communicated them to a few 
whom he could trust. Among these were Burke 
and Jack Harrington. When the giant heard 
the plan, he swore first, then laughed, slapped 
his thigh, and declared himself ready for the 
fun. Jack was enthusiastic. It could be done, 
and it would be! 

With the enlarged features of the Rest, 
there had come an increasing attendance of the 
miners. Among the younger men there was a 
growing rivalry for clean living. The physical 


FOLLOWING THE STAR 


329 


contests demanded it, and many cast off the 
chains of habit that they might gain increased 
powers of lung and thew. In this manner the 
weeks went by, and the time came for the sun 
to return with a kindly face, shining over the 
good, brown earth. 


XXIX 


THE CALL 


HE winter was gone. The singing of birds 



A had come, with grass and a tender wind. 
The land was caught in a net of white waters, 
and the old sorrow came back to the pines. 

Borden walked on slowly, following the trail 
as it led through breathing laurel and trembling 
aspen groves. 

His mind was full of pensive thoughts, and 
quite in harmony with the mystery which 
touched him out of measureless distance. The 
old cosmic longing was abroad. Under the 
harmony and the beauty it spoke a weird lan- 
guage, baffling all efforts to fathom its strange 
secret. From passing clouds it signaled like 
farewells of departing ships — a vague, indefi- 
nite something which brought to his heart a 
pleasant pain. It was as a kiss not just given; 
an embrace felt, but not real ; a wondrous 
breast, maddening in its burning mystery, yet 
never quite receiving the throbbing temple ; 
something that smiled while it wept, always 
looking through soft, submissive tears. 


330 


THE GALL 


331 


The old hunger for Gene Truxton was eat- 
ing at his heart. It was over forever, he 
knew. All that was left to him was the memory 
of a face like the pure shining of stars. It had 
been a trick of fate, a mockery. The love 
that would have been a heaven to him was 
reserved for another. Perhaps now her eyes 
were shining with the light which comes but 
once, and her lips were answering vow with 
vow. It was all a mystery; there never could 
come an answer. The years would pass, and in 
time his temples would grow their harvest of 
frost, and his step would be less strong; but 
never could the sacred flame which burned upon 
the altar of his heart die out. 

He had not been weak, and he would not be. 
He had gone on, pouring the cool fountains of 
resignation on the hot tables of his heart, but the 
burning had remained. To-day he seemed over- 
burdened. Tne wish at the core of him was 
great. He entered a small grove where the 
aspens and the glorified cherry mingled in 
scented profusion. 

He stood for some time at the center, his 
head uncovered, his eyes raised to where the 
earth and sky met. At that mystic line he 
a 'ways had imagined that a tantalizing person- 
ality rested, half hidden in the filmy haze. 
Farther on was the great world of the Beyond 


332 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


and the back of Beyond. Slowly all the hunger 
he had felt awoke in him, and the longing 
which had eaten his peace away rose dominant 
and resistless. Stretching his hands toward the 
charmed line, he cried passionately, once, twice: 
“Oh, Gene! Gene!” 

On waves lighter than air the call went into 
the vastness which stretched between the woman 
he loved and himself. For a moment he stood 
as if listening, his face raised, his hands out- 
stretched, as if waiting an audible reply. Then, 
with a quick intake of breath, he started as 
though a wing had touched his brow. Some- 
thing of the ache in his heart ceased, and a 
sense of rest possessed him. For some time 
he stood caught in a mesh of the supernatural, 
while from far away came the smell of grease- 
wood, blown from verdant hills. 

The old spell came to him from the peaks, 
and he turned that way. The mountains were 
robed in green, varying from a deep emerald to 
a fading, filmy smear. The white waters were 
dancing in the valleys, their courses marked 
with the airy grace of willows. The deer were 
turning red in the thickets, and the grouse led 
their sweet-voiced broods through the bunch 
grass. 

Borden had benefited by' clean living. His 
veins bubbled with virility, and his eyes were 


THE GALL 


333 


clear with pure thinking. Those who knew 
him best noticed that the wild laughter was 
gone; also, the stormy element which made him 
love a fight. But a smile which was far better 
seemed never absent from his lips. There was 
that about him which spoke of struggles, and of 
victories won. Now that the mirth of the land 
had come, he spent much of his time wandering 
through the scenes he loved. He enjoyed watch- 
ing the white waters go flashing past, as if to 
keep some important tryst by coral isle or palmy 
bay. Perhaps they hurried that they might 
kiss the ship which bore the woman he 
loved farther from him. It was possible that 
her eyes might bend over these very waves, not 
knowing that he had looked upon them. Such 
is fancy when her wings are touched with the 
sober tints of regret. 

Only once does a great love come to man 
or woman. Such a love had come to the soul of 
Paul Borden, and it never would cease to domi- 
nate him. Deep in the forest, he gave himself 
to dreams — dreams which left their impression 
on his face and soul. 

The day passed, and came the twilight. 
Stretched on a bank, blue with gentian flowers, 
Borden watched the first stars appear, while 
the low murmur of the river, rushing on bright 
wheels to the sea, came to his ears. He almost 


334 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


longed to mount its silver chariot, and count ail 
its shining strands. 

At last he rose and walked on. The moon 
was a spirit ship, sailing her imperial highway 
with flashing spars. 

There are some moments into which all that 
ever has been felt of love or pain seems to be 
condensed. This was such an hour to Borden. 
A hundred times he put the haunting face from 
him, and tore the clinging image from his 
heart, only to find that he must do it over again. 
He longed for her wildly. The unappeasable 
hunger in his nature could be satisfied by one 
thing only — her love! and that never could be 
his. 

He was strangely awake to his surround- 
ings. The earth smells were good. There was 
something plaintive in the hooting of an owl. 
The wild was vitalized with a flowing spirit. 
He felt it and drank of it deeply. 

Following an impulse, he walked rapidly out 
of the woods, and, reaching a path, followed it 
down the slope to where it crossed a small stream. 
Beyond was a stretch of laurel and mountain 
cherry. Through this he went with purposeful 
steps. Farther on, the trail ran along a winding 
ridge, where the tall hemlocks stood like senti- 
nels above the town. He was on his way to 
the cabin of old Sluicy. Crossing the main 


THE GALL 


335 


creek, he approached the hut, the measures of 
a song coming to him as he drew near. The 
Color was singing, and accompanying herself 
on the piano. Borden paused a moment to 
listen to the artless tune, then hurried on. Well 
he knew where the girl’s voice had caught its 
pleasing note. There was something like it in 
the song Jim was singing as he came past the 
cabin. It only aggravated his own heart hunger. 

The Color gave him a joyous greeting. The 
chivalry of man was a sacred tradition with 
this girl, and to that hour nothing had ever 
come to her to shake her faith in her creed. 
She drew him in with impulsive kindness, and 
insisted that he take the best chair in the house. 
Mrs. Sluicy limped in for a word, her hands 
dripping with dish-water. Borden pleaded 
haste, took the girl by the hand and led her 
out on the porch. Both sat down on the edge 
of it. It was more pleasant here, he insisted. 

He wondered how he was to ask what he 
felt in his heart, but, as if she had divined his 
thoughts, The Color began at once to tell him 
of a letter she had just received from Gene 
Truxton. Borden appeared only passingly inter- 
ested to the girl, who watched him narrowly as 
she talked. Miss Truxton had spent the winter 
traveling. The Queen was with her own people. 
There was a trip planned abroad, which would 


336 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


include France and the English Isles. The 
proposition was something of a trial to her 
father and Aunt Ruth, but she believed they 
would consent in time. The letter was not long. 
There was some good advice to the girl, a per- 
sonal note to Laughing B rookie, and the prom- 
ise of a present soon. But Borden listened in 
vain for any reference to himself, or that the 
charm of the hills was calling her back. 

She was not married, that was evident; but 
Borden wondered if the trip abroad might not 
include many unstated things. She mentioned 
seeing the missionary in an Eastern city, and 
spoke of him pleasantly. Evidently he had 
taken pains to hunt her up, and, from certain 
matters tucked in that easily riffled nook, “be- 
tween the lines,” Borden guessed that he had 
urged upon her the high honors of returning 
with him as a fellow-missionary to the heathen 
of Deadman. However, he came back without 
her. The missionary had brought the discour- 
aging news that Aunt Ruth utterly refused to 
return to the hills, and that Gene spent much of 
her time in an effort to make the dear, but 
badly spoiled, old lady comfortable. 

The Color stated this with genuine regret, 
for she had hoped all along that, with the com- 
ing of spring, the hills would draw back the one 
who had done so much for her. 


THE GALL 


337 


Borden went down the trail with bowed 
head. There had been no reason to ask the 
question which had formed itself in his mind; 
The Color had answered that for him. Crossing 
the swinging bridge, he went on into the belt 
of fir woods beyond. A half-defined resolution 
formed itself in his mind to find her and tell 
her all. If she could not give what he craved, 
it would be easier to bear the load afterwards. 
The next instant he had dismissed the thought 
from his mind. She must have known how he 
felt in those days when his love was controlled 
by selfishness and jealousy, and she had not 
cared to give him reason to hope. Besides, he 
had been a fool, and had done those things 
which doubtless had completely alienated her 
affection, if she ever had any. 

If there had been references to him in the 
letters which came to The Color, he would have 
taken courage; but there were none. True, she 
had expressed pleasure to hear of the good work 
he was doing in the camp, but in such language 
as made any approach impossible. No, it could 
not be. Fate had willed it otherwise, and, gath- 
ering his sacred sorrow back to his heart, he 
set his face like a flint, and walked reso- 
lutely out of the woods, as men go to prison. 
There was much to be done for others, and he 
would lose himself in that. 


XXX 


THE PLANS OF EVIL 

B IG strikes in the mines insured a permanent 
population for Deadman. 

The Miners’ Rest was crowded day and 
night. The safe was filled to its capacity with 
gold dust and coin, and the married men came 
regularly to draw amounts to send East to their 
families. Instead of going to the saloons, the 
miners came to match each other in game and 
lift, or to listen to the singers from the board- 
ing-house at the Red Warrior mine. A rollick- 
ing spirit prevailed, and many an ill humor was 
laughed out of court promptly. 

Borden watched this with pleasure, mingled 
with the men, and shared in the games and con- 
tests. His own disposition was extremely 
sociable, and he entered into everything in a 
way that made him the life of the place. He 
was still planning quietly. The hour was near 
at hand when he would strike, and strike hard! 

Some of Pierre’s followers had come back, 
and were frequenting the camp. This was not 
good for his plans, and Borden worked that 

338 


THE PLANS OF EVIL 


339 


much harder. Later, the Frenchman himself 
came. He had been assured secretly of Borden’s 
change of living, and, hoping that those who 
had planned his hurt had forgotten it, or had 
gone to new fields, he crept about the town 
watchful and armed. 

Borden was not deceived. He knew the 
villain was supported and encouraged secretly 
by the saloon men, and that the murderer would 
be used as a tool to work harm to the Miners’ 
Rest. He said little, hut those who watched 
him saw that he was sleeping close to the safe, 
a rifle beside him. 

The time had come for Lucky to play his 
part, and he went about it in his own way. A 
few nights later, the old prospector took Borden 
aside and reported a secret meeting of the 
gamblers, saloon-keepers, and several members 
of Pierre’s gang, Pierre himself being present. 

“The devil’s to pay, Borden,” the old man 
began. “That vermin has come back. I heard 
it all. I was where I could. Remember, I’ve 
slept ofif many a drunk in that back room — only 
this time I wasn’t drunk. With only a partition 
between us, I heard all their schemes.” 

“What are they planning to do, Lucky?” 
Borden asked. 

“Why, blow up the Miners’ Rest with dyna- 
mite, and rob the safe! The Frenchman is to 


340 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


do that first, then they are to divide the haul 
and send you where you will do them no more 
harm — understand ?" 

Borden nodded. “When is this to happen?'’ 

“At moonrise, day after to-morrow night; 
remember, when the moon rises. They are 
going to set an old cabin on fire at the upper 
end of town, and while the miners are up there 
they will do their work." Lucky saw the old, 
dangerous smile come to Borden's lips.. “Thank 
God, he hain't lost that !" the old man mused. 

“So, that's the trick, is it? Well, just leave 
it to me, and I'll try to have a surprise ready 
for them; meantime, say nothing to any one 
about what you have heard." 

“Sure, boy. But, remember, I’m on what- 
ever turns up. I want a chance to pinch that 
rascal's neck." The old man's hands opened 
and closed convulsively, as if the feel of the 
Frenchman's flesh was in them. “Before I go, 
I think I'll have you put me on the active list 
down here. A gang that'll plan the likes of this 
is no bunch for me." 

The old miner leaned over the table and 
watched Borden put his name in the book in a 
clear, strong hand, then, with an expression of 
satisfaction, he shuffled out, tightening the belt 
at his hips as he went. 


XXXI 


THE SURPRISE 

T) ORDEN communicated what he had heard 
D to a few — perhaps a dozen. He planned to 
thwart the schemes of his enemies in the most 
effective way. He smiled grimly as he thought 
that the very men who once hailed him a good 
fellow and a royal knight of Bacchus were now 
planning to take his life. He had been a fool 
among fools. That was painfully clear to him. 
But those days were gone, never to return. He 
saw himself moving through the filthy atmos- 
phere of the Bald Eagle as some one he might 
read of in a book. That old self was dead — 
buried forever. With a feeling of disgust, he 
shook the memory from him. Thank God! the 
old life with its gangrene was gone. 

Burke, Kelly, Lucky, and a few others who 
could be trusted, were taken into the secret. All 
entered heartily into Borden’s plans. It was 
arranged that these, when the alarm of fire was 
given, should drop back and take stations on all 
sides of the Miners’ Rest. Once there, they 
were to await the instructions of their leader. 

341 


342 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


The night of the third day came, and as the 
hour approached, Borden walked quietly among 
the miners in the great hall, and saw that all 
those to whom he had spoken were there. 
Standing under the great pine near the door, 
Borden watched the silver caps grow on the 
hills as the moon rose beyond the range. At 
last the night was bridged with a glittering 
span; then the golden cusp of the moon appeared 
above the eastern summit, filling the valley to 
the brim with its white effulgence. 

What an incongruity that evil men should 
select such an hour for robbery and murder. A 
mighty grieving began in the pines as the light 
wind came down from the hills. The branches 
seemed filled with premonitions. The hour had 
come, and he awaited the stroke of sin. 

A sense of peace was upon him. Juries of 
nature had tried and acquitted him of weakness. 
Planet judges had pronounced him strong. God 
had said he was clean. The wealth of it was 
delicious. In his loneliness, he had made the 
Queen of the Wild his companion, and she had 
crowned him, and given him seat with her on 
her emerald throne. Together they had gone 
gipsying down all the lanes of harmony, where 
Beauty and Mystery took his hands and kissed 
them. 

From a cliff on the point of the hill came the 


THE SURPRISE 


343 


hooting of an owl, a trifle too vigorous for that 
somber bird. Borden turned at the sound, the 
old smile on his lips. A moment later the 
northern sky was tinted with a delicate carna- 
tion, and with it a far shout which reached him 
in a broken chain of echoes. A nearer voice 
took up the cry, and the camp echoed to the 
magic clarion of “Fire! Fire!” A man leaped 
out of a clump of young trees and ran past the 
Rest, shouting the alarm. Instantly the doors 
were thrown open and the miners began to pour 
out, and, seeing the glare, stampeded up the 
street. In the rush of the crowd a dozen men 
dropped out and slipped unseen to their stations. 

When the sound of the running had died 
away, a slinking form crept from the laurel, 
and with a catlike motion approached the house, 
keeping well within the shadows. The figure 
passed to the rear of the building, while Borden 
entered by a side door. At his heels was Old 
Lucky. Inside, both men removed their shoes 
and stepped into one of the booths. The safe, 
half hidden in shadow, was not ten feet from 
them. The next instant, light steps on the floor 
told the watchers that some one was approach- 
ing from the rear. The sound ceased, and 
Borden, peering through an opening, saw the 
Frenchman crouched in a listening attitude. 

Convinced that the place was deserted, the 


344 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


villain turned toward the safe, an evil grin on 
his face. Deftly he tried the lock. It was 
evident that he was no novice in such matters. 
As by magic, the bolts obeyed him, and the 
heavy door swung upon its hinges. At this 
moment the watchers moved out from their 
hiding-place. Startled by a slight sound, the 
Frenchman turned his head and saw Borden 
within a few feet of him. With the agility of a 
panther, the thief leaped to his feet. As he 
reached his full height, his hand going in a 
lightning sweep to his hip, a blow from Bor- 
den's full right arm crumpled him on the floor. 
The next instant the hand of Old Lucky closed 
like a vise on his throat. 

It was only the work of an instant to bind 
and gag the quaking villain. Outside, Borden 
found that the other parties to the plot were in 
the hands of his men. All were badly fright- 
ened, and begged to be protected. Though they 
had deliberately hired themselves to take his 
life, each man asked Borden to plead for him. 
The anger of Old Lucky knew no bounds at 
this. 

“A mess of cold-blooded murderers askin' 
the man they planned to kill, for mercy! Think 
of that! There's nothin’ in hell or out of it as 
low as you fellows. What mercy would you 
a showed Borden if things had gone your way? 


THE SURPRISE 


345 


Any one of you devils would have laughed to 
cut his throat, and glad of the chance. No, sir ! 
You hang! is my verdict, and Til furnish a rope 
— got it right here handy.” Sure enough, Lucky 
brought a rope from the place where he had 
hidden it. 

Burke and several others were of the same 
opinion. Against this feeling Borden spoke 
quietly, but firmly. The Ruby Kid, who had a 
way of turning up in unexpected places, was 
sent to call the miners back. They came, shout- 
ing their rage, for the Kid had told them of the 
plot. Two hundred strong they packed about 
the conspirators, demanding rope trial, and that 
by quick jury. 

When a move was made to drag them to the 
pine-tree at the front, Borden stepped before the 
leaders and raised his hand. 

“Hear Borden !” “Hear Borden !” came 
from all sides. 

Standing upon a boulder, he set the case 
before them. By every law he should have 
the deciding voice, but there were judges in 
the land to whom such things should be 
submitted. If they wished to please him, they 
would do this. Then, raising his voice to a 
convincing pitch, he asked that they would hear 
him out on the following Thursday evening in 
the great hall at the Rest. If they did, he 


346 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


had something to submit to them worth while. 
As for the men they had captured, turn them 
over to the law. 

This was agreed to by a majority, and Bor- 
den was in the act of stepping from the rock, 
when Pierre raised an objecting voice: 

“Give me a man — a man to fight! That is 
better ! No judges but those in holsters for me ! 
I will meet any man at ten paces, and abide by 
the issue.” 

The Kid sprang forward. 

“I accept that challenge. I know this man 
Pierre. By every law of earth and heaven he 
ought to die. But a thousand deaths would not 
wash his hands of blood. There are things you 
do not know, things that call for vengeance. 
A friend crushed by this monster — ” The Kid 
choked for a moment, then went on: “As a 
cougar rends the unsuspecting deer. For that 
he must die, and not by judge or jury, but by 
my hand.” 

While the boy was speaking, Pierre leaned 
forward, his teeth showing white under the 
dark mustache which was rimmed with blood 
from the gag which had just been removed. 
There was a wicked glitter in his eyes. 

“He thought she was alone in the world, 
that there was none to avenge the deed; so he 
went his way, and she to her grave. That day 


THE SURPRISE 


347 


1 was but a lad; I did not know firearms. But 
I would wait; I would be patient. Sometime, 
when I was certain of the heart of a hare at 
twenty paces, and when life would be sweet to 
him, then I would take it from him. That time 
has come. Gentlemen, you must turn this man 
over to me. I shall give him an equal chance, 
no more, no less.” 

The boy stood with hand at holster, waiting. 
The Frenchman panted with fear and hate, his 
dark eyes glittering dangerously. 

“Let the rascal be turned over to the boy!” 
came from all sides, and Borden, quick to feel 
the mind of the crowd, knew it would be useless 
to oppose the demand. 

“Give him his gun, and untie his hands, but 
not his feet. This is to the death!” The Kid 
spoke in a low voice, but there was the certainty 
of natural law in it. 

Here and there a revolver glinted in the 
moonlight. The crowd drew back. 

“Don't you come any tricks, Pierre, or Fll 
kill you myself. Wait the word, and don't fire 
too soon,” said Burke, as the Kid backed to 
ten paces. 

“I am ready, gentlemen!” The boy spoke in 
the same colorless voice, his hand at his hip. 

“Then, take the count — One, two — ” The 
reports cut the last word in the speaking, and 


348 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


the Frenchman reeled and fell, with arms spread 
wide, his evil face turned to the stars. 

Burke leaned over the twitching body. 
"Center of the forehead, boys,” he said, lacon- 
ically. 

"You see, gentlemen, I have practiced that 
shot for three years, till I could hit the head of 
a chipmunk at fifteen paces five out of six and 
give myself the count.” 

Not a voice broke the stillness as the Kid 
walked out of the crowd. Two hours later the 
stage rolled by, and on it a midnight passenger. 
At a word the driver drew up, and a trim figure 
leaned down from the boot and shook hands 
with Borden, with a catch in the words of 
farewell. 


XXXII 


DRAWING THE LINES 

A S the election drew near, that unreasonable 
thing known as “party spirit” broke into 
full flame. 

It was now open war between the Miners' 
Rest and every saloon in town, and that war 
was to the death! An attempt was made to 
burn the place, but the barking of Brookie's 
dog revealed the presence of the intruders, and 
the plan was thwarted. The supreme moment 
had come, and Borden gathered his forces for 
the struggle. 

Deadman had taken on the proud distinction 
of an incorporated town, and planned a typical 
city government for itself. Things should be 
done in decency and in order. 

In all the saloons, resinous liquors flowed 
without price to all who would drink. Flags 
appeared over the drinking-places and dance- 
halls, and flamboyant decorations covered up 
the dreariness of the unpapered walls. Orators, 
vitalized with noxious liquors, did honor to a 
Bacchanalian scheme of things. The mob lis- 

349 


350 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


tened with ready applause. The Miners' Rest 
must go down! Hurrah! They would put it 
down. Members of Pierre's gang called loudly 
for vengeance, and fomented disorder and 
dissatisfaction. 

In the back rooms of the Bald Eagle, the 
friends of the saloon worked out a ticket; the 
name of the owner of that place was put down 
for mayor. To offset this, Borden and his 
friends put up a citizens' ticket, on which his 
own name appeared for mayor, against his pro- 
test. Once in the struggle, he strained every 
nerve to sweep the ranks of decency to victory. 

Carefully he and a few others framed the 
planks, and snugly fixed among the others was 
one which meant the overthrow of the drinking- 
places, if the ticket carried. When this platform 
appeared, the saloon men rose in storms of 
protest ; their indignation was boundless. 
Threats left on doors, and sent by unsigned 
letters, warned the leaders of the Rest element 
that their lives would pay the forfeit if they 
persisted. Evil-mouthed men swaggered through 
the streets rank with blasphemy. Plots to start 
trouble fell through, because those for whom 
the traps were intended refused to be led into 
them. Through these crowds Borden shouldered 
with a smile and an air of resolution which 
caused the groups to quail at his approach. 


DRAWING THE LINES 


351 


Once more the fighting blood in him was up. 
He would win, or know the reason why. 

At this time Old Lucky began to do effective 
work for the Miners’ Rest. Day and night, he 
went among the cabins, finding men when they 
would listen, and talking to them of the benefits 
of the place that had done so much, not only for 
the miners, but for their families. Many were 
reminded of this, who would have squandered 
what they had in rioting and drinking. In time, 
the old man’s influence began to tell, and the 
saloon-keepers noticed a falling away in the 
enthusiasm which usually greeted the outbursts 
of the orators hired to talk against the Rest. 

Constantly, the lines of moral demarkation 
became clearer. For the first time, Borden was 
feeling the strength and vindictiveness of evil. 
When he had raised his voice in praise of 
Moloch, then he had been hailed as a royal 
fellow, a choice spirit. Now the lips were curs- 
ing which had flattered him. Men were seen 
skulking about his cabin at night. Turning 
quickly, he had discovered a form dogging his 
steps. Street rows were started, in which a 
stray bullet was to reach his heart. But Borden 
faced the opposition without fear, and when the 
lash of wickedness struck him in the face he 
uttered no word, but gathered himself for a 
more desperate struggle. 


352 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


In all its dragonish deformity, the love of 
money stood out before him. That desire was 
the mainspring of the murderous opposition. 
Could he have convinced his feverish enemies 
that all chance for gain was gone, they would 
have ceased their opposition at once. 

As the tide rose against him, he thought of 
Gene Truxton. In fact, she never was absent 
from his mind very long at a time. With a 
shudder, he remembered his own career, and 
how disgusting it must have been to her. No 
wonder she had not cared to refer to him in her 
letters. The thing he was fighting had not only 
debauched the men of the mountains, but it had 
possibly robbed him of that which would have 
made him endlessly happy, the love of a woman 
who above all others was worthy of his regard. 


XXXIII 


WHERE THE STAR LED 

E VERY man whose name appeared on the 
register at the Miners' Rest entered into 
the fight with a will. The honor of the insti- 
tution was at stake, and, incidentally, their own. 

Campaign matter scattered through the town 
denounced the place as a nest of meddlers in 
other men’s business, and Borden as the chief 
meddler of all. The trouble-makers were busy. 
The militant spirit ran riot. To all this, Borden 
and his friends made no reply, but continued to 
work quietly. There were many talks in tunnel 
and by camp-fire, in the stopes and the shaft. 
Men argued it out in their cabins at night, and 
the result was that the influence of the Rest 
grew rapidly. All looked forward to the great 
rally in the big hall. Things were to happen 
then worth while. 

Borden planned a banquet for the last night. 
All was to be free, with plenty of singing. 
There would be speaking and other features of 
entertainment. To this rally of good fellowship, 
a blanket invitation was issued. The leading 

353 


354 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


women of the camp were to be present; in their 
goodness of heart, many had volunteered to 
serve tables. This was a winning idea, and 
from everywhere came assurances that the 
miners intended to be there. 

Against this, the opposition planned a rival 
demonstration. Tinsel and glare flashed in the 
dance-halls. Painted sirens were imported to 
add zest to the pageantry; the floors were to be 
washed with wine, and the bars spread with 
delicious beeswing. All were asked to the feast 
of Belial, without price or distinction. 

Bold and revolting rose the black front of 
the bars and brothels, and against it hardened 
the solid ranks of the clean element. The 
last day arrived. Borden knew that the men 
would be in the mines and mills till night, and 
this was his opportunity. At the doors of 
cabins, at the mouths of tunnels, men would 
wait to invite their companions to the banquet. 

For several days the preparations were 
going on. Borden’s hand went out filled with 
his own gold, and no account was kept. The 
cooks looked to him for their pay. There was 
plenty for all. Kelly insisted that he be per- 
mitted to have a share in the expenses, and that 
big-hearted wit stopped at no expense to make 
the program a success. 

The novelty of the whole affair interested 


WHERE THE STAR LED 


355 


the miners, and they planned to be there, from 
the least to the greatest. The Color was to 
sing; the Cornish quartet was ready with the 
latest songs. Kelly was delighted. He had 
seen to it that the girl was put in a prominent 
place on the program. Borden supervised the 
whole matter, and saw that nothing was over- 
looked. Tables were arranged the entire length 
of the great hall. When all was ready, he 
selected his committee of invitation and gave 
them their instructions. 

The next day was the election, and the 
saloons would be closed by the State law. If 
he could control the situation till midnight, he 
believed he could realize his dream and drive 
the drinking-places and dance-halls out of the 
camp. The editor at Boulder Bar had found an 
opportunity for lively comment in the new 
element which was manifesting itself at Dead- 
man, and he had exhausted his limited vocab- 
ulary in abuse and sarcasm. 

Borden had much to say when the time 
should come; then he would leave it all to the 
decision of the ballots cast. Wishing to be 
alone, he took the trail up the slope, to the cabin 
made sacred by Gene Truxton. There was 
something inexpressively lonely about the place. 
The old pines seemed asking for her, their long 
arms stretched in appeal. 


356 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


Entering, he sat down in the chair by the 
table and glanced around. All was as she left 
it, except that rust showed red on the stove, and 
a picture had fallen loose at one corner. He 
rose and fastened it, and resumed his seat. Out 
of the atmosphere seemed to come something of 
her personality. The crude logs breathed it, and 
the furniture accentuated it. 

The old ache came back to him intensified, 
and he rose to leave. Before passing out, he 
turned, and his eye ranged over each object. 
All these her hands had touched. By that win- 
dow she used to sit and watch the stars fill up 
the sky spaces. There at the bedside she had 
prayed. Did she remember him? He knew she 
did, for she had promised that. Obeying a feel- 
ing infinitely tender, he sank upon his knees in 
the spot where she had knelt, and breathed a 
thousand blessings upon her, wherever she 
might be. About her image he wove the holi- 
ness of his love, yet there were no tears on his 
lashes, and there was no weakness in his face. 
All that the morning sunlight revealed was a 
calm resignation, which only those who make 
great surrenders can know. His heart panted 
for her. He wanted her beyond words to ex- 
press, but there was no outburst ; there was 
no feverish complaint. All his being condensed 
into asking just for her. One touch of her 


WHERE THE STAR LED 


357 


hand, one sound of her voice, and the world 
might go to whom it would. But this could 
not be. The gulf had opened between them, 
and it never would close. To the end he must 
walk the stony path without her. Leaving the 
cabin, with its haunting suggestions, Borden 
entered the forest and was seen no more till 
night. 

When he returned, he found Kelly in high 
spirits, singing his favorite songs, and crashing 
about the cabin, doing all manner of aimless 
things. The Irishman surprised Borden when 
he entered by grasping his hand and breaking 
into disjointed talk. 

“I tell you, Borden, it's all right! Things 
are coming your way. You can't guess how 
things are stacking up! We'll win, sure as 
shooting, we’ll win ! I've a notion to smash you 
just for luck. I hear the boys are coming from 
everywhere. Arrah! This is the greatest day 
of your life, boy, and you must make good. 
When you get up to make that speech, do your 
best! Do you get me? Do your best!" 

“I’m glad you feel hopeful, Jim," Borden 
replied, wondering at the excitement of his 
partner. “I will do what I can to put the thing 
through." 

“I know that. And now let me tell you 
right he~e, we win! No question about that, 


358 


THE 4NGEL O’ DEADMAN 


we win ! The saloon men are scared crazy. All 
their preparation has amounted to very little. 
The boys are coming our way. There has been 
some pledge-taking to keep sober over election 
day, and to be at the banquet. We’ll lick the 
boots off them! They don’t stand a show on 
earth. The fight is ours right now, and the 
gamblers are saying so in every saloon in town. 
There won’t be enough to sing bass at the Bald 
Eagle to-night. And it’s all your doings, Bor- 
den — all your doings, and I’m proud of you, 
sure as you’re born!” 

Borden had never seen Kelly so stirred up 
before, and his own spirit kindled at the news. 
As they went down the trail through the clasp- 
ing night, Kelly repeatedly slapped Borden on 
the back, and insisted on holding to his arm, 
while he talked in a jumbled way of the part 
The Color was to play in the program, and how 
well she was going to do. Never could he repay 
Miss Truxton for what she had done for the 
girl. If only she could have been with them! 
Borden winced. That would fill his cup to the 
brim; his joy would be boundless. 

“You must have The Color tell her all about 
this night, Kelly — that is, if we win,” Borden 
reminded quietly. 

“Don’t worry about that; she’ll get it all,” 
Kelly assured. 


WHERE THE STAR LED 


359 


As they drew near the Miners’ Rest, Borden 
saw men coming alone and in groups. The 
place would be crowded to its utmost capacity. 
The fire of the true orator burned within him. 
He longed to pour his heart out to these men; 
to set before them the things he had dreamed. 
As they entered, a ringing cheer greeted them, 
and Burke’s voice was heard thundering out 
something about a clean town and a white man 
for a mayor. Another round of applause fol- 
lowed this, and Borden found himself the center 
of animated groups who insisted on shaking 
hands with him. 

Miners were still coming, and soon every 
available space was filled. Then came the feast. 
The nien, clad in overalls and blue flannel shirts, 
seated themselves at the long tables, and the 
steaming dishes were relieved of their con- 
tents in short order. As fast as one dish was 
emptied, another took its place, filled to over- 
flowing. Up and down the tables flitted the 
women, dressed in cool white. The Color was 
looking her prettiest, and Jim’s eyes followed 
her with unconcealed pride. 

Again and again the dishes were filled, till 
every man had been supplied. Then the tables 
were removed and the seats arranged for the 
mass-meeting. On these, four hundred men 
were packed like sardines in a box, all in high 


360 


THE ANGEL O’ DEAD MAN 


spirits and loud in their expressions of appre- 
ciation of the dinner. 

First, a string band rendered several selec- 
tions, returning repeatedly at the call of the 
crowd. Then came the Cornish quartet, and 
Borden, closely following every feature of the 
program, knew he never had heard them do so 
well. At every chesty outburst of applause his 
spirit rose with hope. 

In a dainty dress, The Color came on the 
platform and sang in a girl’s clear voice a song 
that bore on the purpose of the gathering. Bor- 
den learned later that she and Kelly had pro- 
duced it between them for the occasion. The 
miners greeted her with thundering cheers, and 
she did her best, retiring flushed and pleased. 
All looked upon The Color as their own. Many 
of the men had teased her when she ran about 
the camp barefooted, and others had held her 
on their laps. They were proud of her to-night. 
Out of the storm of sound came the cackling 
laugh of Brookie, declaring that all the girl was 
she owed to the Angel O’ Deadman. 

Then came a flutter of paper along the rows, 
as the men looked for the next number on the 
list. Borden glanced over the program, written 
in Kelly’s best hand, and saw that his own name 
was the next, and last. 

When he mounted the platform and faced 


WHERE THE STAR LED 


361 


the eager rows, a tempest of applause shook the 
building. For some time Borden waited for 
quiet, while the men showed their enthusiasm 
for one who had manifested such unselfish 
interest in them. 

At the moment when Borden would have 
begun, Old Lucky shuffled into the hall, his face 
animated as none ever had seen it before. 
Striding well to the front, his heavy boots 
clumping along the floor, he announced in a 
high voice that he had just come from an 
inspection of the saloons and they were lone- 
some. The dance-halls were listless, and the 
bartenders idle and angry. They were confess- 
ing defeat two to one. This threw the crowd 
into storms of applause, and Old Lucky sat 
down, covered with the glory which comes to 
the bearer of good news. 

Borden began with a caution against over- 
confidence. While it did seem that they were 
within sight of victory, there might be reverses, 
and persistent work must continue to the last 
moment. Gradually he warmed to his theme, 
and the native eloquence which was his began 
to grip his hearers with indefinable power. In 
burning speech he reviewed the history of the 
Judas element in the camp. One by one the 
ghastly murders were depicted, and the rallying- 
places and training-schools of the blood-letters 


362 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


were shown to be the drinking-places of the 
camp. 

In chaste language he referred to the one 
who had conceived the idea of a place where 
the miners could meet in a clean atmosphere, 
and catch glimpses of better things. He paused 
here, while Laughing Brookie nodded and 
voiced his agreement aloud. 

Words flowed from his lips like water, as 
he drew a picture of the camp purged of these 
places which constantly incited to the worst 
there was in the soul of a man. Unsparingly 
he told of his own folly, and of his change. 
They would bear him witness that he had 
shaken the rags from his soul. 

Resistless as a mountain flood he swept 
them on. Far up the glowing slopes of man- 
hood he wooed them; painted them the glory of 
achievement, the splendor of victory. With a 
master hand he swept the harp-strings of mem- 
ory, as he led them back to the knees where in 
boyhood they gathered, and by the mounds, long 
covered with uncut grass, till out of the past 
came the touch of lost twilights, the shining of 
eyes and the mirth of voices gone from^them 
forever. 

Men sat spellbound. Many were moved to 
tears, and drew their rough hands across their 
eyes. Their feelings were melting. Things 


WHERE THE STAR LED 


363 


they had not guessed were in them asserted 
themselves. From height to height they were 
being lifted. Over the fen-bogs of excess, out 
of the upas swamps of failure, up the flowery 
slopes of worthy achievement, on and up, past 
the stars, past self to — God! 

It was done. There was no such thing as 
holding the pent feelings of the men longer. 
Jack Harrington leaped upon a seat and ex- 
ploded the magazine. Old Lucky followed, and 
the next instant four hundred men were on their 
feet, waving their hats and cheering till the 
sound rolled up the canyon and into the ears of 
the barkeeps leaning in their doors. 

Down the aisle surged Kelly, followed by 
Burke, Harrington and others. The next 
instant Borden was lifted to their shoulders and 
carried repeatedly up and down the room. In 
that moment, Borden knew that what he had 
battled for was his. Nothing could take from 
those men what had come to them in that hour; 
nothing could stand before their purpose. 

As the excited crowd sank once more to 
their seats, Borden found himself by the door, 
through which came a soft stir of night air. 


XXXIV 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 

HE taste of the cool was good, and Borden 



A drank it deeply. The glow of victory was 
upon him. He had proved himself master of 
the situation, and the triumph was his. Now 
he could bring his thoughts back to their 
favorite channel. 

If only she who had made this hour possible 
could have been there to have a part in it all! 
Borden realized now as never before how much 
he owed the woman who had come and gone 
from his life like a fair dream. More than 
that, the life of every man who had listened to 
him had been influenced by the same chaste 
power. As his thoughts drifted into the past, 
reaction set in, and a pensive mood dominated 
him. 

Out of the lost days came tender memories 
— the times she had smiled him welcome as he 
went and came on the trail; the few chance 
meetings here and there, and that one under the 
pines in the glade, when he had acted the fool. 
Gradually, the chesty roar of the hall went out 


364 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 365 


of his ears, and he wandered in a trance of 
sweet longing. 

From this profound absorption Borden was 
recalled by Kelly, who had grasped his arm and 
was pouring something into his ears about the 
best thing on the program. The face of the 
Irishman never had glowed as now. Borden 
wondered at it as he looked at him curiously. 

“Turn around, you yap, and give attention 
to the last number,” he heard Kelly say, and 
mechanically he obeyed. As his eyes reached 
the stage, he grew tense as a bow-string, and 
stood motionless, for there, more beautiful than 
he ever had seen her, stood Gene Truxton, the 
old, winsome glory on her bright hair, and her 
cheeks greatly flushed with the excitement of 
the occasion. 

Had she materialized out of the star sheen, 
or dropped from the rim of a passing cloud, his 
surprise could not have been more complete. 
Borden felt an iron grip on his hand . . . Kelly 
was crushing it with both of his. The joy of 
it was maddening! The great thirst within him 
drank deeply of the charm of her presence. 

I ove and longing and hope rose mightily within 
him, and Kelly winced under the grasp of the 
hand which closed over his. 

Then, like music on smooth waters, her 
voice floated out to him and filled the hall with 


366 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


its cultured fullness; flooded through the door 
and swooned away among the listening pines. 
Such a voice! To Borden it was like the sound 
which charmed the shepherds under the stars 
near Bethlehem. He was impelled to go to her 
at once. There would have been no shame. 
The glory of his love would have made it like 
confessing faith in God. Then came the saving 
second thought. What reason had he to think 
she would receive him if he did? He drew up 
strong and calm. As a magnet he held her 
glance, though she struggled against it. 

Borden knew the song was done, for the 
miners had gone wild. Laughing B rookie was 
on a bench waving his hat as vigorously as his 
corpulence would permit. The air -was filled 
with swinging arms. In the whirlwind, Gene 
left the platform. Borden had a glimpse of 
delicate blue as she disappeared. 

The blood bounded in his veins as he stepped 
into the night. At the edge of the woods he 
was overtaken by Old Lucky „ Jack and Kelly. 

“Did you know she was here?” Borden 
asked, turning to Kelly. 

“Sure! She got in on the night stage, she 
and the old gent, and this morning came down 
to see The Color. That was the first any of us 
knew. It seems that Aunt Ruth died suddenly, 
and the old gent got the fever to come back to 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 367 


the mountains, and they did, without taking 
time to study about it. I understand he has 
invested again in this section. When I found 
out she was here, I planned a little surprise 
for you — see?” 

“And that reminds me of something else,” 
broke in Lucky. “It was that gal who saved 
your life the time you was in the hands of 
Pierre. You never knowed that, ’cause she 
made us promise not to tell. It would a-been 
all-night-till-morning with you if it hadn’t been 
for her. But Kelly and the rest of us said we 
wouldn’t tell till she gave us her consent. I 
heard she was here, and, thinks I, it’s time Bord 
knew about that matter up in the canyon, and 
so I sez to her, sez I, 'Miss Truxton, I want you 
to let me tell Borden about that little affair up 
cabin way, ’cause I calculate to tell him anyway. 
Borden,’ sez I, 'is one of the best men God 
A’mighty ever put breath in, and he ought to 
know it for several reasons.’ ” 

“What did she say?” broke in Kelly. 

“Oh, she just looked at me with them eyes 
of hern and said sort o’ quiet like, 'You may tell 
him, Mr. Lucky, if you want to.’ ” 

“Tell me about it, Lucky; every detail.” 
Borden was outwardly calm, but Kelly felt his 
hand tighten on his. 

“Well, you see, it was this way: The Ruby 


368 


THE ANGEL O' DEADMAN 


Kid got in on it and came tearing down the 
trail for help. Up there, somewhere, he met 
her, and told her what was doing, and that the 
rascals at the cabin was just waitin’ till old 
Pierre got back to swing you up. Well, sir, 
when she heard that, what did she do? Well, 
she didn’t go wringin’ her hands and making a 
big pow-wow, like most women would, but she 
just hustled down to the cabin and got an 
automatic and went up the trail. 

“The Kid had told her the lay of the land, 
and she crept through the laurel till she could 
hear all them devils was a-sayin’ by the cabin. 
That way she learned what trail he was cornin’ 
by. Then she went back, and, hidin’ behind a 
tree at the edge of the glade, she stepped out 
and made him put up his hands when he came 
along, and when we got there she had him face 
up against a tree with the end of the automatic 
pressin’ between his shoulders. The old villain 
was swearin’ hard, but he dasent move. There 
it is, sir. I’ve itched to tell you long ago, but — 
I’d promised. 

“Now, another thing. You have won com- 
pletely in this fight. The chaps uptovrn have 
hung up their aprons; they know it’s all off 
with ’em fur good. They’ve heard the gal is 
back, and they know what that means. Every 
miner in Deadman would go to hell for her, if 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 369 


she wanted ’em to. The barkeeps is packin’ to 
get out, and you can just set it down that 
Old Lucky knows !” The old prospector gripped 
Borden’s hand and clumped away. 

“And you knew she saved my life?” Borden 
turned to Kelly with the question. 

“Yes; but you heard what Lucky said; she 
didn’t want it told. I suppose you know why?” 

“I almost dare to believe I do,” Borden 
added fervently. 

“I knew it would do your old eyes good to 
see her, Bord, and that was why I was right 
down glad myself. Why, hang it all, man, sup- 
pose The Color had been gone that long — ?” 
Kelly broke off with a most expressive gesture. 
“But she won’t be. We’ve got that all nicely 
fixed for a near date, and I’ll be asking for 
witnesses and congratulations soon.” 

“Same here!” broke in Harrington, enthu- 
siastically. 

“How’s that, Jack?” from Kelly. 

“Well, I don’t think she’d care if I told you 
fellows. The Queen and I have made arrange- 
ments for our future happiness, and that’s why 
she came back with Miss Truxton. She’s good 
as gold, and I’m not ashamed to say that I 
think my all of her.” Turning to Borden, he 
continued: “That was all a mistake. I was a 
presumptuous fool! I knew it to-night when 


370 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


she stood there looking like she had just been 
with God in the mountain, and I was glad that 
she opened my eyes to the fact that I was a 
conceited blockhead. The old days are to be 
forgotten; I have buried them forever. The 
girl is beautiful in her new life, and too good 
for me at the worst, and I — do — care a lot 
for— her!” 

Borden was too full for many words, but 
there was thankfulness in the handclasp which 
he gave the two men. 

“Now, one thing more before I hunt up the 
Queen — for she made me promise not to stay 
long — you covered yourself with glory to-night. 
That was a masterful plea, and I congratulate 
you, the future mayor of Deadman ! Miss 
Truxton stood back of the partition and heard 
it all . . .” Borden’s eyes asked for more. 
“Yes, she thinks it was grand. I saw her 
breathing fast when you reached those high 
flights, and especially when you spoke of her. 
That’s enough, old man; don’t be a fool again.” 
Harrington walked away. Turning to Kelly, 
Borden placed his hand on his shoulder. 

“You have known all the time that I loved 
her, Kelly?” 

“Yes, Bord.” 

“And you believe — that is — you think — ?” 

“Not a doubt of it; and she’s the most won- 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 371 


derful woman in the world — except one. God 
bless you, old pard; I’m gone.” Kelly went off, 
whistling at his best rate, and Borden walked 
into the forest. 

His heart was full and his thoughts in a 
tumult with a maddening joy. The sense of the 
loss of her had become a habit, and to doubt 
that she could ever be his almost a part of him. 
But this mood had been shattered by what he 
had heard, and he walked — swung up the trail — 
with the old, free stride. He wished to be 
alone, and something drew him toward her 
cabin. 

Out of the night came a clasping peace, a 
largeness of soul which exalted him. Above 
him the sky spaces were sown with dim stars. 
The moon sisters were a-dance in the glades, 
where the light fell into shining pools. Far up 
in the tops of the pines the wind was at its 
grieving, sweeter than the chimes of Normandy. 
From far away came the murmur of the river, 
and nearer a small stream babbled with happy 
lips. High above, the prismatic mountains shot 
back the clear flashing of worlds. 

Borden moved on aimlessly through the 
undergrowth, where wild things made love. 
About him the aspens showered their trembling 
leaves. He was walking the frontiers of silence 
— of soothing remoteness. With keen mind he 


372 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


went over the past — the first meeting, and all 
the other meetings; the folly which had plunged 
him into dissipation; the trial of his soul when 
the wolf packs of the big-limbed storm ran 
beside him with flashing fangs. Then had come 
days of loneliness — weeks and months of hungry 
resignation; but before that — peace, and a 
knowledge that he was clean. 

For an hour he sat watching the wind- 
stirred trees; then he rose and walked out of 
the grove, crossed a grassy space and ap- 
proached the old cabin. The open spot about 
the door was gorgeous with soft light. Borden 
noticed indifferently that the door was open, 
but it conveyed no meaning to him. With un- 
covered head he stood waiting. To his heart 
this was the center of all things. Intuitively he 
waited — for what, he could not say, only 
with his spirit. He had been waiting for 
months. He still was calling with empty hands. 
It was the assertion of being, the wisdom of the 
life principle. 

Nor was he surprised when a light step drew 
his attention. 

“Were you waiting for me?” she asked, 
stepping into the embracing splendor. 

“Yes; all these long, hopeless months — just 
waiting !” 

She came and stood before him in her 


AN HOUR THAT WAS LOVE’S 373 


old, haunting beauty, her bright hair falling in 
a cloud of glory about her face. 

“Was it from here that you called me — 
called from the sides of the world ?” 

“Yes, from here — from everywhere — and 
you came!” 

“It was right that I should; your trial had 
been enough.” 

“You expected to find me here, then?” 

“Yes. This has been a soul appointment 
since time began. I wanted such a moon and 
such a night, with the wind in the pines.” 

Without a word he drew her to him with 
strong, resistless arms, and bent upon her a 
searching glance, as if to read her soul. 

“Then, you love me — Gene, I know.” 

Her answer was a lift of her eyes to his. 
In that look he read her heart, and his lips, 
holy with chaste feeling, pressed her own, the 
bright head pillowed upon his breast. 

“My darling!” he murmured, “I give you 
all— all!” 

“And to you I give my heart, dear Paul, a 
woman’s heart, filled with the white glory of 
love — the only great love I can ever know. And 
you are worthy, my brave, my splendid one!” 

He held her close, possessed with a wild, 
mad joy. Lifting his hand, he pointed into the 
mystery-haunted night. 


374 


THE ANGEL O’ DEADMAN 


“Out and on forever we two go sailing. 
Past all the islands of time, over the vast for- 
ever. When the last sun has burned out like a 
candle, and fallen from immensity, our fair 
sails of love will be spread to divine breezes. 
The lips of life are steeped in sacred wine. 
‘Though I have lien among the pots, yet I am 
as a dove’s wings covered with silver and her 
feathers with yellow gold !* ” 

A sigh came out of the hemlocks, and in the 
aspen thickets a more passionate trembling. 
The glory of the June night fell upon them, and 
sanctified them with its chaste power. The old, 
old pines lifted up their arms in bene- 
as if to bless them. From the vale below 
the sound of white waters, and out of the 
mellow hush a man’s voice vibrant with grati- 
tude: 

“God, I thank thee!” 


THE END. 





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